


the bittersweet between my teeth

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of ice, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Smutty goodness, accidental turned super intentional incest, probably way too much fluff for a grim story like ASOIAF/GOT, with some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: “You never did actually bend the knee, you know.” This time the teasing was apparent in her voice. She looked at him, eyebrow lifted with the same haughtiness she’d wielded the first time he’d ever set foot in her throne room, when she’d deigned to descend the stairs and stand toe to toe with him, a bastard. He stared at her quietly, mouth twitching. He pressed his lips together to contain the smile, mustering his characteristic solemnity.“Aye, you’re right,” he said finally, with a gravity that made her face go slack of humor. “This will work better with me on my knees.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a smutty expansion of Jon and Daenerys' night together on the ship to White Harbor. Hope you enjoy!

Belowdecks, all Jon could hear were the creaks of the boat as they rode the gently rolling waves to White Harbor and his own quick, shaky breaths. He lingered outside the queen’s quarters, shoring up the courage to knock. There were no sounds coming from beyond the door. Perhaps the queen was already asleep. Perhaps, despite the lingering looks, first in her council room then later in the mess hall over dinner, she wasn’t waiting for him at all.

He wet his lips, eyes boring into the finely carved Targaryen sigil in her door. It was foolish to be nervous. He could face down the White Walkers and their dead with all the grit of a true Northern-born son, lead the Night’s Watch and thousands of Wildlings as Lord Commander, and protect the people of Winterfell as King in the North–but all that went to shit when Daenerys Targeryen so much as looked at him, that violet-hued gaze as sharp as Valyrian steel.

And yet, whatever misgiving he had about being here, he knew she wouldn’t turn him away. It was inevitable he’d end up here. He knew that much.

_Gods be good._  One more deep, fortifying breath, and he rapped a sharp knock on her door. He didn’t have to wait long for her to answer. Hazy lighting from candles and a crackling fire illuminated her silhouette from behind as she opened the door, staying her movements at the sight of him. There was surprise in that normally impassive, steely-eyed stare. And–acknowledgement, he thought. A shared understanding.

She knew it was inevitable, too.

Pushing the door open wider, she said nothing. His heart pulsed in his throat as he stepped into her room. A purposeful stride, betraying none of the apprehension of his previous thoughts. Amaranthine eyes followed him, questioning him. Daring him. That nerve, that fire he found on the battlefield time and time again, flared to life suddenly, a simmering heat low in his gut. Holding her gaze, he shut the door behind him.

Their eyes stayed locked, neither speaking just yet. His breathing was ragged, and he saw hers accelerate, lifting her breasts in quick succession.

He grappled for a place to start, for the words to explain. To woo her, to entreat, but, damn it all, he’d never been a bleeding poet.

When Jon spoke finally, his voice was thick and glottal, catching like gravel in his throat. “Daenerys.” If he’d had more to say, it left him then, and he fell into an abrupt silence.

Something flickered in her eyes. With just the barest twitch of her eyebrow, her chin tipped upward, and she folded her hands in front of her. Primly, like the proper queen she was. “Is it Daenerys now? What happened to ‘my queen’?”

Of course, she wouldn’t make this easy. That fire inside him blazed hotter. Amusement eased the tension in him, an aching familiarity thawing his Northern blood. He lifted his eyebrows. “So now you want my undying allegiance, do you? As I recall, you weren’t too pleased with my demonstration in the Dragonpit.”

Her gaze flickered away from him, a defiant cut to her uplifted jaw. But even in the dim lighting of her quarters, he could see the laughter in her eyes, now a dark amethyst in the warm light of the brazier. They betrayed a deep gratification at the reminder of his words to Cersei, his public declaration of fealty, however she denied it. Daenerys always said more with her eyes, maybe more than she realized.

“Well. You never did actually bend the knee, you know.” This time the teasing was apparent in her voice. She looked at him, eyebrow lifted with the same haughtiness she’d wielded the first time he’d ever set foot in her throne room, when she’d deigned to descend the stairs and stand toe to toe with him, a bastard. She might have refused to call him a king, but she’d never once treated him like a nobody.

Her audacity had rankled him then. Now, he couldn’t deny there was something undeniably attractive about her confidence.

He stared at her quietly, mouth twitching. He pressed his lips together to contain the smile, mustering his characteristic solemnity.

“Aye, you’re right,” he said finally, with a gravity that made her face go slack of humor. “This will work better with me on my knees.”

Jon unstrapped the leather gambeson from his chest, pulling it over his head. Daenerys blinked at him, confusion creeping into her expression. “What are you doing?” she demanded as he dropped the padded armor to the floor.

“Giving you what you want,” he said, his voice gruff and humorless now. A frown furrowed the delicate skin between her brow. Misunderstanding his intentions, no doubt. She’d understand soon enough.

“Jon. I wasn’t serious,” she started but stopped when he stepped to her. _Jon_. Had she ever addressed him as such before now? The intimacy of his given name on her tongue made him heady with want. His fingers found the small metal hooks along the collar of her robe, and he deftly unfastened the clasps. Her eyes turned molten, rolling like a sea of lavender blooms.

It was easy enough, disrobing her; her other gowns and cloaks had looked complicated, with their intricate bindings and sashes and chains, but this robe was surprisingly straightforward. Jon had never actually undressed a woman before; the nights they’d lain together, Ygritte had taken off her own clothes–and often, his clothes as well.

The thought was fleeting, gone a moment later when he pushed Dany’s gown apart, his hands faltering at her shoulders.

She was naked underneath. Why the revelation stunned him, he had no idea. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Not this. Not the soft swells of her breasts and hips, the sloping plane of her stomach, the strong lines of her legs. Pink nipples, creamy pale skin. A thatch of curls at her cunt as silver as the plaited hair curling around her shoulders. His cock twitched, surging against the placket of his trousers.

_Gods be good._

Growing impatient with his dumbstruck reverence, Dany rolled her shoulders to force the robe off. It slid down her arms to the ground, a discarded heap, and she stood before him, proudly. A dragon. Every inch of her.

His Dragon Queen.

Original intent forgotten, Jon moved closer, fingertips skimming along her arms down to her hips. Hands settling there, he dipped his chin to bring his face to hers. She followed his movement, bringing their mouths close. Lips parted, her breaths were hot and quick, warming his mouth. Her eyes were lidded, pupils fat and dark; she looked as dazed as he felt, wanting, waiting.

So he kissed her. Lips, then tongue. Her mouth was hot and silky as she kissed him back with a ferocity that seemed to grip him by the root of his cock. The gentle, probing strokes of his tongue were quickly abandoned in favor of eager, hungry sups from her open mouth. She tasted like the hot mulled wine of home and the smoky embers of a campfire.

He pulled away, only then realizing his hand was curved around her neck, the broad pad of his thumb pushing her chin up. Their breaths harsh between them, Jon released her, and she made to follow him. To take control, no doubt. His hands on her hips stopped her, and she pried her eyes open with difficulty when he sank to his knees.

She made a sound of exasperation. “This isn’t the time—”

Her protest died on a sharp inhale when he lifted her leg to throw it over his shoulder. She lost her balance, but his hands, firm and callused, cupped her bottom to hold her steady against the imperceptible sway of the ship. Then he opened his mouth to feast, tongue parting the delicate folds of her slit.

She gasped and clutched at his head, his shoulders. He licked the length of her seam again, the flats of his teeth pressing against the tender nerve at the pinnacle of her cunt with each flex of his jaw. She hissed, and the sibilant sound seesawed through her teeth on a deep-throated moan. Again, he tasted her, ravenous for the honey that seeped from her in earnest now, coating his tongue. Here, she was sweet and tart, like the red wine Tyrion had often plied him with back at Dragonstone.

Dany emitted a guttural, otherworldly sound when he tongued the stiffening nub of her clitoris, slick with his saliva and her arousal. She was speaking nonsense now. No–just a tongue he didn’t know. High Valyrian, or maybe Dothraki. She cried out again and went up on tip-toe, pushing her cunt to his face when he sucked hotly on the fleshy pearl. He didn’t stop until her legs started to quake and he felt the deep-seated flutters of her cunt against his wet mouth.

Body limp and boneless, the entirety of her weight rested on his shoulders and arms, so he was careful to set her legs back on the floor, banding his arms around her as he rose to his feet. His beard was wet with her, and he made an attempt to wipe it off with his hand. Dany leaned back in his embrace, her trembling hands braced on his chest, and she peered up at him with round eyes.

There was wonder in their depths. And, beneath that, a simmering ire that caught him by surprise.

He didn’t move, muscles tensed and rigid, as he let her work through the emotions raging inside her, beneath her sheer, crumbling mask of detachment. Her cheeks were brightly flushed, her eyes liquidy, gradually softening the longer she looked at him. He didn’t lower his gaze.

Eventually, she swallowed, lips thinning, and she dropped her eyes level with his chin. Her shoulders straightened, and she pushed off his chest. He released her instantly, bracing himself for her dismissal. He tried to swallow his disappointment, to bury the burgeoning regret. He shouldn’t have come, he shouldn’t have pushed this ill-advised tryst–

She fisted her fingers in his thick tunic. “Off.” A commanding tug. “Remove it. All of this. Get it off.”

Why did he have to wear so many bloody damn clothes? He wondered how he’d ever thought he’d been cold; it seemed impossible now. He was burning up, and there were too many layers to peel off, too many barriers keeping his skin from knowing the soft sweet silk of hers. Mercifully, Dany wasn’t content to simply watch him strip; her hands fumbled together with his, pulling at hooks and openings, she as eager to remove the offending garments as he was.

Jon stepped out of his trousers and boots, nearly kicking them across the room in his haste, but he froze when he felt her eyes on him. She had taken a step back to look at him, naked as his name day. Chest heaving with labored breaths, he held still for her perusal, though his eyes took their fill of her beautiful form, too. Dany’s eyes traveled downward, honing in on the scars crisscrossing his torso, then blazing when they dropped lower to his cock, which jutted from his dark curls with a boldness that would’ve shamed him any other time.

But not now, not when her plump breasts were blush-tipped and puckered with excitement, when the tops of her inner thighs glistened with the slippery evidence of her desire.

Her breasts rose with a harsh breath, and she lifted her eyes to his. They glowed like the banked embers of a fire simmering under a gray layer of ash.

“ _Vala se zokla_ ,” she murmured. “ _Ñuha zokla_.”

The meaning of the words were lost to him, but not the tone, not the melodic purr of her voice, the heat in her eyes. He reached for her, drawing her body tight against his. He hissed at the touch of her satiny belly to his tender, swollen cock, but she swallowed the sound with her mouth, pulling his head down to hers. She curled her fingers through the short bristles of his beard, tugging, holding his mouth wide open to the furious plundering of her tongue and teeth.

Her body leaned into his, and he took a step back, his grunt of surprise muffled against her lips when his legs hit the edge of her bed and he buckled onto the mattress. She followed, knees sinking to the bed on either side of his hips, then she pushed him back, falling with him. Her mouth never strayed from his as her body slipped along the length of his. Jon crawled up the bed on his elbows, cupping the back of her head to keep their mouths slanted together. They slid and wriggled together, grunting and huffing with the strained effort. Dany’s legs splayed around his taut thigh, and she settled her wet middle against it, moving with a sinuous, hypnotic rhythm, gyrating, undulating. Using him to the needy demands of her body.

He tried to push up, but she fought him, pushing back, holding his shoulders to the bed, as she bit at his lip. Something ferocious and barbaric clamored inside him, rising up, demanding to be let loose–howling, baying, begging to slake its thirst. With a throaty growl, Jon surged upward. She relented, just barely, and he overpowered her, rolling her underneath him, pinning her to the bed. Her surprised gasp made his cock jump eagerly, the tip weeping, and when he got her thighs opened with his knees, he thrust into her with one, powerful stroke.

Dany cried out, the force of the intrusion, of his body arching into hers, pushing her head up onto the pillow. He nudged her chin up and claimed her mouth in another kiss, bowing his back and rolling his hips to push deep into her.

And then he went still, muscles and limbs trembling with the effort. He felt submerged suddenly, like he’d been dunked in the frigid waters of the North, beyond the Wall–water so cold it seemed to light every one of his nerve endings on fire.

Head swimming, Jon pulled back to catch his breath, to wonder at this woman beneath him. Her eyes fluttered open, lips red and slick from his mouth and parted in soft supplication. When her violet eyes clashed with his, she grew still. And she stared at him as if she couldn’t quite believe it either, like she knew what he was feeling and she felt it, too.

Jon never had a home. Never felt like he did, not really, not even in Winterfell. That elusive feeling, of belonging, of owning something that owned him too, always seemed just out of his reach.

Until this, right here, this soft yet hardy woman in his arms, her body opened for him, welcoming him, drawing him deeper inside like the warmth of a hearth.

He drew in a breath. Still, his chest felt tight, squeezed, so he took another one, deeper this time, and expelled it with a full-body shudder. As if releasing all the anger and hurt and hollowness that had festered in him since his own men had betrayed him, since Melisandre and the Lord of Light had ripped him from the cold crypts of death.

_Now_ , now he was very much alive.

Gripped with a lustful desperation, Jon kissed her again, lifting her knee up to slide in and out of her smoothly with his first, tentative thrusts. Dany clawed at his back, his neck, his hair, until the piece of leather tying it back unraveled around her fingers. She moaned as he fucked her, slowly, tenderly, but her lips clung stubbornly to his, tongue hot and wet in his mouth.

Her sheath was snug and slick around his cock, hugging his shaft, drawing him in every time he stroked into her. Bracing his arm above her head, he slid his knees under her thighs, forcing them wider apart. Then he fucked her harder, their coupling wet and noisy. Dany cried out, throwing her head back, and, his rhythm barely faltering, Jon kissed her throat, her collarbone, her breasts. Her skin was hot and tangy on his tongue, growing damp with perspiration. The thick silky furs of her bed, the heat from the brazier, the friction of their bodies–he was sweating too, his skin flushed and suffused with a roiling heat that spread out from his groin. Their skin slipped together, rubbing, chafing. A clumsy, needy suck of her nipple between his lips, and then he shifted to kiss her again, needing her mouth on his once more.

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t close enough. He was inside her, surrounded by her, but he needed more, needed to burrow deeper, needed to crawl under her skin, the way she’d crawled under his. Stretching his legs out, he laid on top of her, belly to belly, chest to chest, barely lifting his hips to thrust. Instead he notched his hips to hers, grinding and rutting until her thighs tightened around his waist, her nails cut white-pink moon-slivers into his skin, and she let out a hoarse cry. Her cunt clenched tightly around his cock, pulsing with strong contractions as pleasure found her a second time.

Jon grunted and shoved into her as far as he could, deep, deeper, as his release gripped him. His cock throbbed, filling her with his seed, and he buried his face against her neck and in the damp tangle of her hair. He relaxed into the clutch of his orgasm a while longer, rolling his hips into hers whenever he felt her arch up with a faint shudder.

Awareness was slow to come. He was crushing her, he realized. Carefully, he lifted himself off of her, but her hands on his back held him close, refusing to let him go far. His eyes found hers. They were watching him through the fringe of pale lashes, drooping with sated pleasure and sleep. The only sound beyond the crackling of the fire were their quick, ragged breaths. He licked his lips; they felt raw and tender, abraded by her teeth. Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t speak. Reluctantly, he withdrew from her, rolling onto his side. Her only response was a soft sigh, eyes falling shut.

He observed her profile for a moment, until she blinked her eyes open. He watched the dreaminess drain from her face, something else sliding into its place. Her usual mask. She looked at him, finding his gaze on her. Abruptly, she sat up and shifted to the side of the bed to stand. With a small frown, he watched her stand up, silver hair cascading down her back as she padded to a small copper washbasin. When she began to clean up his seed dripping down her thighs, he averted his eyes politely, a hotness inflaming his cheeks.

She couldn’t have children, he reminded himself. She seemed certain of that, whatever his feelings were on the matter. If he had any doubts…or impossible dreams he’d only just begun to consider…

The splashing of water ceased, and he shook away the thought. When he heard no further movement, Jon turned his eyes back to her curiously. She was still facing away from him, her back rigid. Discomfited, he pulled a fur over his groin and sat up on his elbow.

“Daenerys,” he began.

She turned to him then and, in a rare show of vulnerability, she crossed an arm over her bare breasts. Conflicting emotions flickered in her expression, the line of her mouth hardening. “Where…” Her voice faltered, eyes sliding away, and he saw her throat constrict with a swallow. Then she met his gaze again. “Who was she? You must have…Who was she to you?”

He stared at her, his brain sluggish to her point, what she was asking, why. The image of Ygritte flashed in his mind, and he tucked it away with the pain, with the memory of her limp body in his arms. When he spoke, his voice was muted, flat. “Someone I loved at one time. As you loved your husband, I’m sure.”

She looked away, indignant yet chastened. Slowly, gradually, she lowered her arm. He expected her to grab her robe, clothe herself, and dismiss him from her room. Instead, she walked back to the bed, steps light, hips swaying with unintentional grace and allure. He had no doubt she knew how beautiful she was, but in this moment, he knew there was no artifice to her movements. There was something raw in her eyes, her expression undone, as she kneeled on the bed. Jon lay down on the furs and pillows, keeping his eyes on her face, and she shifted onto her hip, her hair falling forward as she leaned on her hand.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know why I asked. Why it matters. What you did, I’ve never–no one…” She lost the thread, growing reticent. Almost shy, if he could believe Daenerys Stormborn capable of such emotion.

He lifted his hand, catching a lock of silky silver hair between his fingers. “Let’s leave it to unpack another day. There’s no room in this bed right now for anyone but you and me.” He reached his other hand out across the bed, catching the edge of the mattress. “There’s barely enough room for the two of us, at that.”

Her purple eyes cut to him sharply, and he gave her a small smile. As easy as that, she smiled, too, before laughing softly. “Jon Snow. You dare insult your queen?” she asked.

Smile growing, he tugged on the hair wrapped around his fingers till she stretched out beside him, settling her head on his chest. “Never, your grace. I’m insulting your puny ship.”

Her body vibrated with laughter, and he loosed a low chuckle, winding and unwinding his fingers through her hair, unraveling braids and knots as he went. The silence that ensued was comfortable, the tension from a moment ago gone. When Dany spoke again, her voice was a soothing rumble in her breasts pillowed against his ribs.

“Will you tell me someday? About this woman you loved?”

His hand went still as he gazed at the top of her head, her hair almost white in the faint light. He swallowed thickly, chest full and tight. “Aye,” he murmured, cleared his throat, and continued, “Someday I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”


	2. and i'll ask for the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this part was written for Jonerys Week on tumblr, Day 5 (smut, naturally). It was mostly just an excuse to write more of these two doing it, to be honest. Hopefully you're not sick of that yet!

A soft knock on the cabin door roused Jon from a surprisingly restful sleep. He remembered where he was when the weight compressing his chest eased as Daenerys lifted her head, awakened by the sound as well. Even half-asleep, Jon’s battle instincts stirred, honed by too many nights of sleep sacrificed while on watch, wary of an ambush. He shifted underneath her, ready to lunge off the bed for his clothes and a sword that wasn’t there, but he stilled at the touch of her fingers on his shoulder. _Stay,_ they said.

“Come back later,” the queen called to her visitor. Her voice was thick with sleep and honeyed by an easy contentment he’d never heard from her before.

A moment passed, then, “Of course, your grace.”

Missandei. Was that laughter he heard in the Naathi woman’s voice? Jon told himself he was being paranoid. Still, he only relaxed down into the featherbed when it became apparent that Missandei wasn’t going to enter—and that Daenerys had no intention of moving, either.

Without looking at him, she laid her head down on his chest, where it’d been resting all night, apparently. Jon remembered holding her against him, just like this, after they’d lain together. Their light, aimless conversation—for once not fraught with talk of politics and battle strategy and the dead—had waned at some point in the night, and they must have drifted off to sleep. He was warm beneath her, the two of them cocooned in silk sheets and fur.

Actually, he was sweltering. Her bare skin was sticky-hot everywhere it touched his. For Jon, someone used to the frigid nights of the North, he couldn’t recall a single morning during his time on the Night’s Watch where he hadn’t awoken with limbs nearly frozen stiff. Only on the nights he’d curled up with Ghost had he’d been close to this warm, and even then, the direwolf’s body heat didn’t compare to the warmth radiating from Daenerys now.

How hot did the Dragon Queen’s blood run, he wondered.

She spoke again, this time to him. “Normally, Missandei just enters my room in the mornings without knocking.” Her lips brushed his chest with her murmured words. He heard the amusement in her voice, as plain as the light filtering through the portholes of her ship’s quarters.

Jon tried not to frown at the implication of her offhanded musing. “She knows I’m here then,” he said, more statement than question. His own voice was hoarse from a night’s disuse. Silently, he cursed himself for the lapse in judgment. He should have been more vigilant, shouldn’t have fallen asleep. He should have left after they’d— _no._ It wasn’t even worth considering. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come knocking at all, but the thought of walking away from her after he’d bedded her, like she meant nothing to him, was abhorrent. Beneath even him, bastard that he was.

And that was if he’d even wanted to leave her side. He hadn’t last night, and he didn’t now. With the threat of immediate discovery gone, he was reluctant to vacate her bed. Reflexively, his arm tightened around her shoulders, pressing her closer. The weight of her breasts against his side was soothing, her legs silky-soft where they slid along his.

“Missandei is...very perceptive, when it comes to matters of the heart,” Daenerys was saying. “She is my advisor and my handmaiden, but she’s my dearest friend, as well. I trust her more than anyone. Well—more than most.”

Jon had gone still under her, only distantly hearing her words. “Matters of the heart,” he repeated, faintly, but she heard him all the same. She went stiff against him then sat up. The fur cover fell away from her, welcoming an unpleasant chill, and her silver hair tumbled down her bare back.

“Forgive me,” she said, her words stilted. She turned her head slightly, giving him the profile of her face, but she didn’t look at him. “That was presumptuous of me.”

“Dany,” he murmured, forgetting her previous reprimand of his over-familiarity. A fist of dread lodged under his sternum when she scooted to the edge of the bed, away from him. “I didn’t mean—”

She stood up from the bed, naked pale skin soft and dewy in the muted morning light. “It was a figure of speech,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, and stepped away. Alarmed, Jon sat up as he saw her fish her robe off the ground. The robe he’d removed the night before, like he’d been unwrapping something precious. She didn’t meet his eyes as she slipped the garment back on, effectively shielding herself from his view. “I understand how lonely the nights get in a war. They must get especially cold where you’re from. I wouldn’t turn away a warm body either.”

Her words lashed him like the razor-thin snap of a whip, and he stared at her, stunned, before outrage took shape. She spoke methodically, matter-of-factly, with no hint of anger. But he’d hurt her, he knew, and now she was returning the favor with all the cool disdain of _Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen_ and whatever other bloody titles Missandei would be quick to prattle off to him were she here.

He hated when she did this, disappeared into the armor of the Dragon Queen, which some days Jon suspected to be as thick as The Wall itself.

“Dammit, Dany,” he cursed, mouth pulling into a scowl. “You know that’s not why I came here.” Heedless of his own state of undress, he threw the covers back and stood up. “I was a man of the Night’s Watch. I know how to survive the cold. If all I’d wanted was a night’s rest, I certainly wouldn’t have come to you.”

Although creased with sleep, her amethyst eyes flashed with anger, narrowing on him. “No?”

He cocked his head to the side, not shying from her gaze. “Aye, you were there, last night. I don’t think we slept much, did we?”

Her cheeks bloomed with color, the rosy flush creeping up her neck from the collar of her robe. It was a beautiful sight, seeing the Dragon Queen blush. She averted her eyes, and his own ire dissipated as he watched her fumble with her sleeves, limp and loose around her arms. _There_ was the Daenerys he’d witnessed last night, the heart of her, when they’d been only man and woman coming together, both vulnerable and raw and real.

Taking a deep breath, Daenerys lifted her gaze. “I only meant…” Her eyes flickered over his body, darting between his face and his—oh. His cock. Her mouth tightened, and she forced her eyes to his face. “Could you get dressed? Please.”

Her agitated command was softened by the tinge of desperation underpinning her words. It was probably inappropriate to find her sudden priggishness over his nudity so enticing. Daenerys wasn’t normally this easily rattled. And, despite his own self-consciousness at being bared before her, he felt his cock stir. _Now is not the time_. Without a word, Jon stalked around the bed to search for his clothes. His pants were halfway across the room; gods only knew where his smallclothes had ended up. By the time he’d managed to get his pants on, embarrassment had mercifully deflated his growing erection.

Lacing up the front placket of his breeches, he turned back to face her and caught her quickly averting her eyes from his backside. Well, he was flattered, at least, if a bit put out.

Daenerys cleared her throat, folding her arms over her stomach to keep the robe closed. She hadn’t yet fastened the bloody thing, and the flaps around her tits gaped open to taunt him with a lovely view of her luscious cleavage. He wanted to howl in frustration but bit his tongue.

“I only meant—I didn’t intend to speak for you. Or pressure you. Last night doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m not a woman easily swayed by whimsical fancies or sentimental notions,” she spoke plainly, but there was that flatness again. Jon hated the detachment in her voice, the way she avoided his eyes. “I’m not opposed to laying with someone, for the sake of pleasure and pleasure alone.” She gave a little shrug, as if the moment and her words were insignificant.

Something ugly roiled through him, and he gritted his back teeth, flexing his jaw until the feeling passed. “Maybe. Maybe you’re not. And I don’t judge you for that, though if we’re being honest with each other, the thought of you with someone—” He bit the words off and shook his head. Daenerys arched an eyebrow.

“Too much honesty?” she guessed, and he sucked in a breath to steady himself. His smile was grim, tight.

“All I know is, that’s not me. I’ve lain with one other woman before. And I loved her.”

Daenerys sucked in a breath as the words hung in the air. She looked stricken, eyes unblinking, and he held his breath. Something momentous shifted between them. Jon felt a lick of fear down his spine, not sure what he’d meant to tell her with that confession, wishing he could take it back, pull them both away from this precipice. Part of him felt like he had when he’d first peered over the edge of The Wall, thinking how it'd be a long fall to the bottom. He felt like that now.

 _It doesn’t mean anything_. Maybe if he were a different man, he could say the words. No doubt everyone else on this ship and throughout the Seven Kingdoms wished he were just a little more dishonorable, a little less frank, a lot more cunning. But for better or worse, that wasn’t him. He’d meant what he’d said in the Dragonpit. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ speak false words. Especially not to her.

Daenerys licked her lips and cut her eyes to the bed. A wistfulness softened her face, and she slackened her tightly folded arms. The robe opened more, revealing a sliver of smooth stomach sloping downward. He stopped his eyes from following the path of flesh any farther, however tempting. “Well.” She seemed to struggle for her next words. “I wish...we could have slept a little while longer. This ship is quite...drafty. Isn’t it?”

The tautness of his muscles loosened, and his shoulders dropped. A faint smile touched his lips, and he lifted his eyebrows when she looked at him. She clasped her hands together, turning to her dressing table. On it sat a looking glass and the washbasin she’d used the night before to clean his seed from between her legs. His gut tightened at the memory, lust spiraling through him as he thought about the mess he’d left on the creamy skin of her thighs—temporary, but for that moment she’d been his, had worn his seed like a brand.

The crude thought was as sobering as it was jarring. It was foolish, the possessiveness he felt for this woman. Daenerys Targaryen the Dragon Queen was not someone to possess, he knew that much.

“I need to get ready, since I sent my handmaidens away,” she announced, for his benefit, he supposed, but it sounded like she spoke more to fill the silence. She sat at the dressing table, and, quietly, Jon observed her. Watched her lift a brush and run it through her hair. But the bristles caught on knotted locks of braids, half-forgotten and half-unplaited since Jon had fallen asleep before he could finish unraveling them for her. He winced with each yank of her brush through the tangles, but she didn’t make a sound. He saw the annoyed grimace on her face in the looking glass, her chin set with stubborn determination.

He couldn’t help it. He smiled, barely fighting back a grin.

Smothering a petulant huff, Daenerys finished brushing out her hair, the strands made flaxen in the soft light. She began to rebraid the strands around her crown. After a moment, Jon crossed to her, stopping behind her. Their eyes met in the looking glass, and she went still when he reached out, weaving his fingers through her hair. Supple silk, like the sheets on her bed. Hesitantly, he twined the locks together, clumsily attempting to recreate the braids he vaguely remembered.

 _“You_ know how to braid hair?” she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. And, if he weren’t mistaken, suppressed delight.

“What do you think they teach us on The Wall?”

She smiled, lips twitching with constraint, before she allowed herself to laugh. He grinned with her, glancing at her face in the glass. She was beautiful when she laughed, sweet and childlike. Gods be good that she would always find a reason to laugh, Jon wished fervently. And would that he could be that reason for the rest of his remaining days, however numbered they were.

He turned his attention back to her hair, growing serious. “My sister, Arya, actually. She used to ask me to braid her hair, when she was much younger. Said that if she had to endure people making a fuss of her hair, she’d rather it be me than her handmaidens. She never cared how badly I made a mess of it.”

“You’re not doing much to recommend your skills right now,” Daenerys mused, still smiling. “Arya. She’s the one the letter mentioned. She’s back home in Winterfell.”

Jon remembered, an acute pain squeezing his heart. He clenched his fist against the sensation, untangling his fingers from her hair. “Aye. I haven’t seen her since—gods. Too long.” She’d been a child when he'd last seen her. _He’d_ been a child.

Daenerys’ expression turned sad, her smile dimming. “You must be looking forward to seeing her again. I’m—I’ll be honored to meet her. As well as Lady Sansa and your brother.”

Jon couldn’t even begin to fathom what his family would make of Daenerys. How they would receive her. Hospitality was a sacred rite in the North, as much a part of their way of life as the snow and cold were, but welcoming a Targaryen? The daughter of the Mad King who’d killed their uncle and grandfather? The sister of the man who’d abducted their aunt? It wouldn’t be easy, Jon knew, but he’d make them understand. Daenerys wasn’t like her kin. If they could see the woman he saw, they’d fall to their knees, too.

He smiled to himself. No. Not Arya, not Sansa. Not bloody likely.

Daenerys seemed to catch his inner amusement. Her smile returned, droll. “They’re going to hate me, aren’t they.” Sharply, his eyes found hers in the looking glass.

“No.” But he wavered, wondering how well he knew any of his siblings anymore. Before, Arya had worshiped Jon, and if he liked something, she was certain to like it as well,  but that’d been years ago, when she was a child of 11. He and Sansa had never gotten on, though they’d seemed to have made peace with the other lately; even so, these days they were often at odds on how to best rule Winterfell. She didn’t trust anyone anymore, and he couldn’t blame her for that, not after everything. That easy naiveté he’d shared as a mere pup of Winterfell had been buried in the crypts with their father and Rickon.

Mulling it over, Jon finally spoke. “It won’t be a grand welcoming to be sure, not even for me, I’m afraid. Sansa will be wary. I’m sure she’ll have some sharp words for me in private, though she’s too much of a lady to be rude to your face. I hope. Arya…” He paused to focus on a braid, weaving the strands together. “She’s different. She’d always rather have been off with her brothers, fighting, hunting, playing in the dirt. She idolized great woman warriors, like Nymeria and Visenya Targaryen. I think she’d like you. She admires strong women. We have that in common.”

Another smile pulled at Daenerys' lips, and he saw the flush of pleasure in her cheeks his words provoked.

Shaking himself loose of her gaze, Jon looked at the strands of her hair in his hands. They looked nothing like the braids her handmaidens so expertly crafted. Resigned, he released her hair. “I think you’re better off doing your own hair, your grace. That is, if you still remember how.”

Her expression registered the offense, eyes narrowing, questioning, as if she weren’t quite sure he truly meant insult. He grinned at her in the glass and took a step backward, then another, until he was standing before the low bench at the foot of her bed.

“You—” She drew up short, twisting in her seat to face him when he sat. “What are you doing?”

Jon glanced up at her as he tugged on one discarded boot and then the other. “You asked me to get dressed. Better late than never.”

Daenerys rose to her feet and stalked toward him so abruptly, he froze in the midst of his task, eyes tracking her until she was standing in front of him. Her eyes looked wild, and she pressed her lips into a thin, firm line. “Stop.”

Jon let his booted foot drop to the floor and planted his arms on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “Well, which is it?” he asked, amused. “I’ve given you my fealty, but I’m not in the habit of having my every move dictated to me. Not anymore.”

Daenerys shook her head. His pathetic attempts at braids fell loose around her face in soft waves, and her robe was still unfastened, now revealing the silver curls at her mound and the tantalizing round pink edges of her areolas. It was a trial to keep his eyes locked on her face.

“Don’t leave yet,” she finally said. The words were halting, cupped closely by her lips and teeth. Knowing how difficult it must have been for her to issue such a petition to him, Jon sat back on the bench, hands braced on his legs.

He was only mildly surprised when she shrugged her robe off, much as she had the night before, but when she sank to her knees, making a home for herself right between his legs, he was rendered mute. Her hands came to rest on his knees, fingertips grazing the blunt tips of his. He stared at the top of her head, sliding his hands back until they fell outside his hips to grip the edge of the wooden bench. Daenerys smoothed her palms along his thighs, slowly, up, up toward his groin. Even through the thick material of his trousers, her hands were hot. Blood flowed ahead of where her fingers journeyed, to pool in his quickly stiffening cock. He swallowed when she halted her hands and lifted her face to his, violet eyes blazing dark as plum wine.

“Jon Snow.” His name was a soft whisper of breath issued from her lips, and she rose up on her knees, bringing her mouth to his. Then she kissed him, parting her lips to brush her tongue against his, which was already moving to intercept.

He groaned, leaning into her. “Dany.” His hands anchored around her hips to pull her to him. She clutched at the bunched muscles of his shoulders, leveraging herself into his lap as he lifted her, and he turned them to deposit her on the bed.

Standing up to toe off his boots, Jon caught himself on the bench with one hand and hunched over as he used the other to unfasten his pants. Daenerys drew her legs up, bringing her knees together in a coy fashion incongruent with her normally bold nature. He stilled a moment longer, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair rippled around her like the silver current of a stream, and her breasts heaved with her quickening breaths, the pink tips puckered and pinched with excitement.

Gods, he needed to taste her again. Needed to dip his tongue into her cunt, into that deep well of honey. Needed to know if she would taste as sweet as she had last night, and whether she had a different flavor in the mornings.

“Spread your legs,” he said. The command was low and guttural, rasping in his throat.

Pleasure flared in her eyes, blowing her pupils wider, like dark blots of ink on paper. “Spread them yourself,” she ordered, haughty and playful and so bloody infuriating all at once, he was hot and hard for her in an instant, his balls heavy between his thighs.

“ _Aye_ , my queen,” he murmured, kneeling on the bench. Her eyes snapped down to his cock bobbing eagerly with his movements, and her thighs began to part before she caught herself, snapping tight. Stifling a smile, Jon grabbed her knees and eased her legs open. There was no resistance from her, and he held her open for his hungry perusal.

Her cunt glistened with her want, red and swollen and pretty like an opening flower. Leaning forward on his elbows, he parted her folds with his fingers. Reflexively, she sucked in a breath and tried to close her knees, but he wedged his shoulders between them and pressed his mouth to her cunt. Then he tongued her, kissing the lips of her sex before dipping in to taste her. As sweet as he remembered, yet somehow different. Daenerys gasped and clutched at his hair, arching up with a roll of her hips. He kissed her again, open-mouthed, holding her thighs apart as he watched her, over the valley of her belly and the hills of her breasts.

Fucking her with his mouth was a pleasure—an easy, immensely enjoyable endeavor, as she didn’t hesitate to tell him what she wanted, if not with words or sounds, then with the demanding tugs of her fingers and impatient thrusts of her hips, until he responded the way she needed. And he was more than happy to give her exactly what she needed.

He slid his fingers inside her, groaning appreciatively at the tight, wet grip of her sheath. When he lapped at her clitoris, her cunt clutched around his fingers, a greedy pull to bring him deeper. He acquiesced, fucking her with two stiff fingers while he suckled the stiffening nub between his lips and teeth.

“ _Jon_.”

He’d never cared for his name before—it’d always been a stark reminder of his bastard heritage—but the way she said his name gave him a new appreciation for it. The way her tongue formed the sound, sometimes with awe, sometimes with grudging reverence, sometimes with irritation, and sometimes—like now—with pleasure so sweet, it was as if she were sipping the finest Arbor gold.

Daenerys whimpered and gasped, writhing against his mouth. His name was another whisper on her lips, and when she came, she hugged him tightly to her, her thighs cradling him, cunt gripping his fingers like it didn’t want to let go.

He had to coax her into releasing him, kissing her sex with a last languid lick of his tongue and savoring the sweet, tart nectar that seeped from between her lower lips. Then he sat up, bringing his body over hers. Beard wet with her slickness, he wiped it off with his hand. Her eyes blinked open, violet rings and black pupils fat with a hunger only momentarily sated. An unbidden smile curled his mouth upward, and he tipped his head down to press a kiss to her rib cage. His lips counted each ridge till he reached her breast, where he grazed his tongue over the sanguine peak. Already stiff, it tightened further under his attentions. Intrigued, he shifted on his arms to free a hand and thumb the rosy bud. Daenerys sighed her pleasure, arching her head back, so he cupped her breast fully and kissed the other, wetting it with his tongue. She was full and heavy in his hand, and he squeezed her tit, appreciating the comforting weight and softness.

Restless, Daenerys squirmed under him, drawing her hands up to his jaw. She raked her fingers through his beard with a tug, forcing him to lift his face. He raised his eyebrows in question when he met her gaze. The pink tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her bottom lip. He moved forward to kiss it, pulling the plump flesh between his teeth to suck lightly, but she pushed him away. His bemused frown notched a furrow between his brow. “What?” he asked.

She smiled, catching her bottom lip between her teeth again. She worried it as he had, then murmured, “ _Ziry iksos ñuha pālegon._ ”

He stared at her. “If you’re expecting an answer, you should speak a tongue I know,” he said tartly. Daenerys lifted her mouth, parting his lips to kiss him and suck at his tongue. The gentle worship of her mouth on his doused any mounting frustration.

Unbalanced by the kiss, Jon was taken off guard when she rolled him over, rising above him. Fingers curled around his shoulders, pinning him to the bed, as she straddled his waist. She smiled, a small, smug twist of her lips. “Is that clear enough, or do you still need a translation?”

“I think I get it,” he muttered, breathing harder with anticipation. Her breasts, round and pert, were shrouded by her silver-blonde hair, and his cock, hard and swollen and flushed with blood, rested between their bodies, pressed to his belly by her wet sex.

Daenerys tilted her head, reminding him of a curious bird. “No. I don’t think you do,” she said decisively. She didn’t take him inside her yet. Instead, she studied him, letting her eyes travel from his face down his torso. They lingered on his chest. His scars, he realized. He would have to explain them to her eventually. Confirm Davos’ words—and what she likely already suspected.

Her eyes flickered to his face again, then she leaned down to kiss his scars. First, the one on his chest; next, the one on his abdomen. His muscles tensed and flexed with the soft caress of lips, but, though ticklish, the sensation only made his cock ache more.

“Dany,” he said, faint and strained. She glanced up, the look veiled by pale lashes, and merely smiled as she slid down his legs. Then, taking his cock in hand, she kissed the wet tip. Her tongue flicked out to lave over the swollen head, and he choked back a shocked grunt when his cock disappeared between her petal-pink lips.

With a hiss, he lurched up onto his elbows to—to stop her, maybe, he didn’t know, but his hands reached for her, his fingers wrapped in her hair to pull her back.

Except she sucked on his cock then, hollowing her cheeks and pulling his shaft deeper into the wet heat of her mouth, and instead of pushing her head back, he drew her closer. Twisted his fingers around the roots of her hair and cupped the crown of her head to hold her in place. With a groan, Jon fell back onto the bed. His hips thrust up of their own accord, rolling with the insistent suckling of her mouth on his cock.

“Oh gods,” he gasped, staring wide-eyed at the wooden slabs of the ceiling until the sensation was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, lost in the pleasure of her tongue and lips and, more gently, her teeth, tugging at the hot flesh of his shaft and leaking tip. His hips juddered again, but Daenerys grabbed his waist and held him down, her hair falling like a curtain around her face, lending the moment a thin gauze of intimacy. Something meant just for her to perform, and for him to watch.

Distantly afraid he might tear out her hair, he jerked his hands away and clutched at the furs around him. His balls tightened, pulling close to his body, and he sucked in a breath to steel himself. The sounds, _oh gods_ , the wet sounds of her mouth on his cock, sliding up and down—

“Dany, stop,” he managed to grate out through gritted teeth, knowing his release was imminent. He refused to spill in her mouth, he wouldn't. But she didn’t heed him, only sucked harder, and with an effort he pulled her mouth off his cock. Confused, she lifted her eyes to him. What a magnificent sight she made, with her lips red and wet, violet eyes shimmering. Clenching his jaw against the rush of pleasure, he shook his head. His words came out halting and jumbled. “Not like this—let me— _please—_ inside you—”

She understood. With a ravenous eagerness, she crawled up his body, placed the tip of his slick cock to her slicker sex and sunk down onto him.

 _Home_. Like coming home, every time.

She was hot and wet around him, and he almost laughed from sheer relief, but the sound choked off in his throat, strangled by a soft groan. Daenerys gasped, breasts lifting with the sharp breath in. When she released it, the sound came out low and melodious, a tremulous moan. He grabbed her hips, palming the soft span of flesh, fingers following the swell of her bottom down as she moved on top of him. Her thighs hugged his sides, and she splayed her hands on his chest to fuck him, slow and deep.

The ends of her hair grazed his chest with her dance, tortuously sinuous undulations of her hips meeting his, over and over. Letting her head fall back, Daenerys released a breath to the ceiling of the ship and moved faster. She held onto him, taking him like a practiced rider atop a mount.

And of course she would be. She handled her beast of a dragon with grace and ease. The thought made him wild, needy, hungry. He bucked, wanting to make her lose control, if only a little. She groaned and bore down on him harder, rocking her hips more urgently. The sound of their coupling, the wet, slick friction of her cunt around his cock, made his gut tighten with a sick sort of wanting. It hollowed him out while filling him to bursting.

Gods, he wanted her, again, and again. He didn’t want to finish, didn’t want it to end, and yet he did, wanted to bury himself deep inside her where his seed could spill and take root—

A sudden knock on the door interrupted their rhythm, only for a moment. Daenerys faltered as they locked eyes, but just as quickly she resumed her movements. “Later,” she called out, trying to keep her voice steady. Jon had gone still, but feeling her cunt squeeze him, it was hard to fight against the tide of his release as it surged and threatened to overtake him; he was too far gone. He rolled his hips up to meet hers with a sharp thrust, and she gasped, a small, quiet sound.

“Your Grace.” It wasn’t Missandei. Tyrion’s voice sounded pained. “I _really_ must insist—”

“In a moment!” Daenerys cried, an edge of hysteria pitching her voice higher. Jon sat up to pull her against him, capturing her mouth to hush her frantic gasps. They ground together, bodies rubbing and gyrating against each other in just the right places, their skin slick with perspiration, and when he felt her cunt flutter, he kissed her harder, her release milking his own from him. Pleasure and relief washed through him and filled her womb where his cock was seated deeply with the warmth of his seed. They clung to each other a moment longer, lips and tongues growing languid and lazy, until they were simply panting into the other’s mouth.

If Tyrion had anything else to say, they’d missed it. Blood was rushing in Jon’s ears, and when it finally quieted, all he heard was the faint lapping of the sea at the boat, and the rustle of bedclothes as Dany shifted in his lap. He banded his arms around her waist and hugged her to his chest while she dropped her forehead to his shoulder. Her fingers trembled as they pressed to his chest, traced the length of his clavicle outward and back again.

She laughed hoarsely, and he pulled his head back to look at her. With a sigh, she shook her head and lifted her chin to meet his gaze.

“So much for discretion,” she said. Now that the lust fogging his brain had cleared, Jon took stock of the moment. Hot embarrassment inflamed his cheeks as he realized Tyrion must know what was happening in the queen’s bedchamber. Missandei would have been difficult enough to look in the eye after this—but Tyrion? And Jon knew how it would look to the others, what they would think: the lowly bastard lord maneuvering his way into the queen’s bed. He couldn’t even call himself the King in the North anymore, someone at least of equal status who might be worthy of the queen’s interest and attentions.

He sighed. “Fuck.” Daenerys gave him a wry smile and nestled against him, his softening cock still warm and wet inside her. She played with his hair, the black chin-length curls winding round and round her fingertip. He went on, still excoriating himself mentally. “I can only imagine what they’ll say—”

“That the Dragon Queen has found another unwitting victim to slake her unquenchable lust for sex, probably,” she finished, her voice light. Jon crooked his neck to look down at her.

“They wouldn’t,” he said, defensively, but there was uncertainty in his declaration. She smiled, finally pulling away.

“I’ve heard it all before. _Whore_. _Slut_.” She paused. “Amusing, really, when you consider that the ones calling me such were the ones whoring me out in the first place.”

She lifted herself from his lap, but when he felt his cock slip from her, he reached for her again, pulling her back. To her surprise, he rolled her onto her back, tucking her beneath him.

“I think Tyrion and the others are like to break down the door if we don’t make an appearance soon,” she warned, only tepidly.

Jorah, to be sure, Jon thought. He was almost surprised the man hadn’t made an appearance yet. He was coming to respect the queen’s sworn knight, much as he had his father, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont; certainly, anyone who’d helped keep Daenerys safe all these years had his gratitude. Still, it hadn’t escaped Jon’s notice the way Jorah looked at her.

He put the thought aside and smiled at her, the half curve of his mouth more a grimace. “Do they imagine I’m in here slaying the Dragon Queen, do you think?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she murmured.

He huffed out a laugh, low and husky, and she smiled with him. Shaking his head, Jon cupped her jaw and gently swept his thumb over her cheek. She fell still, watching him, violet eyes going soft.

“Let them come, then. But I can’t imagine anyone on this ship would dare,” he said. She smiled.

“Because I have three dragons?” Her smile faltered, slipping, and sadness crept into her face as she remembered. She looked away. “Two.”

Heart in his throat suddenly, Jon swallowed against it and turned her face back to his, pressing his forehead to hers. “Because they respect you. They love you. With or without the dragons.”

Daenerys touched his hand on her cheek, holding him there. Her skin was soft and smooth, a contrast to the callouses of his own battle-roughened hand. That dichotomy sparked a frisson of pleasure that made him tremble slightly.

“And you?” she whispered, eyes boldly meeting his. His breath caught, susurrating in his throat. After another hard swallow, he licked his lips. Neither of them moved, their foreheads pressed together, breaths hot and damp between them.

After a moment, he said solemnly, “I’m on this ship, aren’t I?” Her only response was the tightening of her fingers around his, almost to the point of pain. Jon thought he saw a ghost of a smile on her lips, but this close her features were soft and hazy. He blinked to bring her into focus, and, eventually, a slow smile spread across his face.

“So. What was this you mentioned about an unquenchable lust for sex…?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed on his shoulders. It was a halfhearted shove at best, but Jon yielded anyway, rolling off her with a chuckle as she sat up, all business once again. “Time to get dressed, Jon Snow,” she commanded primly, regarding him with an assessing look over her bare shoulder. Then she smirked. “And try to keep your clothes on this time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr at muttpeeta.tumblr.com.


	3. i'm your king of nothing at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany reckon with the news of Jon's true identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist an expansion on this fic that deals with Jon and Dany learning about his parentage. Let it be known that in the process of writing this chapter, I realized how nonsensical the plot of season 7 was, outside of establishing Jon and Dany's relationship, the timeline makes no sense, and it's kind of daunting trying to "predict" events for a season that hasn't happened yet lol But this was really just a chance to write more Jonerys smut tbh.

A raucous clatter startled Dany out of her light sleep, the disturbance accompanied by a not-so-quiet curse.

“Ow! Bloody fookin’ chair...”

Heart racing, Dany lifted her head from the pillow, the layers of furs and pelts slipping off her shoulder. Ghost, who was curled at her side, had raised his head as well, alert, but he seemed less perturbed than she at the sight of his master stumbling through her chambers, threatening the unmovable furniture in his path. Dany let out a breath, relieved it was only Jon and not an attacker. The castle of Winterfell was well fortified, but whether it could withstand an army of dead men had yet to be tested, and every day that threat marched closer.

Jon sidestepped the chair, finally noticing Ghost in the dim lighting the brazier pitched around her quarters. “So that’s where ya got off to,” he muttered, squinting one eye at his wolf. He snorted. “Shoulda known.”

Frowning, Dany wedged her elbow into the featherbed to hoist herself up. She clutched the furs around her shoulder to ward off the ever-present chill in her room. “Yes, it seems he has better manners than his master when it comes to welcoming guests,” she said with husky disdain, but in her groggy state, her glower felt more like a sullen pout.

Jon wilted under her scorn. With a sigh, he shrugged out of his thick cloak. It was more of a battle than it should have been, especially for someone as graceful in battle as he. “Aye, well, what does a wolf hafta worry about but fillin' its belly?” He grunted. “And warmin' yer bed, apparen'ly.”

Ghost wasn’t the wolf she wanted warming her bed, but she bit back that retort when she saw him sway on his feet before catching himself on the accursed chair as he attempted to drape his cloak over it. Her brain finally put the pieces together, and she stared at Jon in disbelief.

“You’re drunk,” she accused, in both shock and wonder.

“Aye, li'l bit,” Jon answered, pausing to swallow what sounded like a soft belch. His Northern burr was more pronounced than usual, the alcohol thickening his tongue and his words. “Word o' warning: Don’t ever try t'go cup for cup with the Hound.”

She’d never seen Jon drunk before. Not at Dragonstone, when he’d been stranded on her island, not after he’d returned barely alive from Eastwatch, not when they’d sailed for White Harbor. Not after arriving to Winterfell and suffering the hostile admonishments and objections of the Northern lords to the Dragon Queen’s presence—and not even after learning from his brother, Bran Stark, and his brother in black, Samwell Tarly, the astonishing truth of his parentage.

Of course, she’d hardly seen Jon since that fateful day. She only saw him in war council meetings and at feasts, sometimes from her window overlooking the courtyard as he trained their men for the battle ahead, but she never saw him alone. For all Dany knew, he’d been getting drunk every night when he retreated to his chambers or the godswood or wherever he sought refuge—anywhere away from her, it seemed.

Dany tried to be understanding. She was willing to give him space to process the truth of his identity. She’d been left reeling herself, learning she wasn’t the last Targaryen, that she wasn’t alone anymore.

But Jon’s avoidance of her the past few days had become tedious. She was a _queen_ , and they had a war to fight and people to protect. She didn’t have time to suffer his childish petulance, even if she missed him terribly at night and longed for his warmth at her side, craved the sound of his quiet voice and even quieter laughter as he recounted stories of growing up in Winterfell as well as his time on the Wall. 

Why he was in her chambers tonight, after effectively rejecting her as nothing more than a royal guest in his home, she didn’t know. And she was too irritated to appreciate his presence now.

“Why have you come here?” she asked sharply, not bothering to wonder _how_ he’d come to be here, despite her guards stationed outside. They’d come to expect Lord Snow’s nightly visits, on the ship, at her tent on the kingsroad, at every inn they stopped at on the way to Winterfell. This was the first time Jon had visited her chambers here, but Dany had made her wishes clear about always allowing him entry.

After that first confusing night alone in this cold, unwelcoming castle, she should have told her guards to deny him.

Jon let out a rough breath, unsteady as he crossed to her bed. “You never minded my being in yer quarters b'fore,” he said, evading her question.

“That was before you abandoned me in your home and left me to fend for myself against your bannermen,” she snapped, wrapping the covers around her as she sat up fully. She wore only a thin nightgown, though it was more than she normally wore when she slept. Winterfell was too cold to sleep in the nude, as she preferred.

Sitting down heavily on her bed, Jon made a sound of protest. She smelled the stench of spirits wafting from him and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“I di'n’t _abandon_ you—an' I dealt with my men the moment we arrived,” he said. “They know to treat you with respect an' deference, an' anyone who doesn’t will answer t'me.”

Dany huffed and looked away. “They ignore me when I speak, as if I’m a silly little girl only playing at court and war, and they whisper behind my back as if I were deaf and stupid. They think I’m only here to act as your bed warmer.” The irony there being, of course, that Jon hadn’t once invited her to his bed here.

His men didn’t respect her. Which was fine, she’d told herself. It’d been no different in Essos. Men always underestimated her. Since wedding Khal Drogo, she’d had to fight for the respect she deserved, and she’d known she would have to do the same here. Jon had warned her as much, even before he bent the knee.

Still, it hurt to be shunned by his people, men and women she wanted to be _her_ people. His family had been, at best, lukewarm in their reception of her. And she hadn’t had Jon to lessen the sting of everyone’s suspicions and distrust.

At the foot of her bed, Jon sighed in agitation, twisting at the waist to face her. He had to throw his arm out to brace himself and shook his head as if it were clouded—and likely it was, with drink. “We North'ners are an untrusting, stubborn lot. We’re cold in nature an' demeanor. Yer here t'help us in the great war. They’ll come t'understand that.”

“And do you?” she asked quietly. His face contorted in incomprehension. “Do you understand that I’m here to help _you_? Because I am. I could help you, Jon. You asked for my trust, and I gave it to you. But now you deny me yours.”

Eyes closing, he groaned and grabbed his head. “I can’t, Dany. I di'n’t come here t'talk 'bout that. Not now. I beg you.”

“Then _why_ are you _here_?” she repeated, her ire sparking.

Kneeling on the bed, Jon crawled toward her. With the direwolf’s large body at her side, the bed was too crowded for the three of them. Ghost nudged Jon’s arm with his wet nose before getting up, stretching, and jumping down to the floor. “I miss you,” Jon said gruffly. “I miss holdin' you. Kissin' you. Pleasin' you.”

His frankness momentarily disarmed her, and she allowed him to approach as she processed his declaration. Any other time, they’d be the sweetest words, words she’d love to hear him whisper to her in the dark. After learning of their familial connection, she'd feared his desire for her would diminish; worst, she feared she would repulse him. And his avoidance of her had only cemented that fear.

But he still wanted her. Relief briefly flickered inside her, only to be extinguished when he reached for her face. His intentions, what he'd come for, were elucidated in that moment. The realization made her furious. 

Angrily, she slapped his hand away. “You dare attempt to bed me? _Now_?” she said, incredulous. “After you’ve ignored me for days?”

Jon blinked, eyes owlishly wide. Shamefaced, he reached for her again. “Dany—I only—I’m sorry—”

“No,” she stopped him, her voice shaking. She shoved at his shoulder, and, unbalanced, he fell onto his back. “You don’t touch me. You don’t kiss me. Not until we _talk_. About everything.”

His sigh was ragged. He scrubbed his hands over his face and left them there, his words muffled as he spoke. “I can’t talk about it t'night, Dany. M'too—”

“Drunk, I know. And as foolish as you are presumptuous. Go to sleep, Jon. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

His hands flopped down at his sides. “Can’t sleep,” he muttered, even as his eyes drooped shut.

“I think you’ll be surprised how quickly wine can rectify that,” she sniffed.

"Ale," he muttered.

"What?" she asked, but he didn't respond. Soon his breathing leveled out, lips parted as he snored faintly. She studied him for a moment then blew out a harsh breath and lay down beside him, drawing the sleeping furs tightly around her.

He hadn’t even taken off his boots before passing out.

* * *

Only hours later, her slumber was interrupted yet again. There was no swearing to accompany the disturbance, however, and when she opened her eyes, she found Jon asleep beside her. He hadn’t budged once during the night, still fully clothed and sprawled on his back. 

Judging by the muted light stealing across her chambers, dawn had broken not too long ago. Sitting up, Dany found the source of the noise that had roused her. Ghost clawed at the door but otherwise didn’t make a sound. His silence mildly unnerved her; she’d never heard him so much as whimper since she’d arrived. If he wasn’t with Jon or one of the Starks, he often crept behind her, undetected until she’d turn to speak to someone.

It was strange how much like his master he was: solemn and guarded, yet dutiful and steadfast.

Perhaps if she plied _him_ with alcohol, Ghost would finally speak too. Half-delirious and amused with the thought, Dany climbed out of her large bed, stifling a hiss as her bare feet made contact with the frigid stones. Quickly, she darted across the room to reach Ghost. He sat when she approached, watching her expectantly. Even at rest on his hind legs, he was nearly as tall as she. She didn't have to crouch to scratch his ear.

“You want to hunt, don’t you, boy?” she whispered. Ghost tilted his head at her voice. “I understand. My children also need time to hunt and stretch their wings.” Although, since coming to Winterfell, Drogon and Rhaegal had been reluctant to stray far from the castle, no doubt making many of the Northern lords more uncomfortable than they already were. Dany wondered if her dragons were displeased with the cold and snowy climate...or if they sensed the quickly encroaching threat of the dead and didn’t want to stray too far from her. Sometimes she still heard them crying in mourning for their brother.

Swallowing her sudden sadness, Dany stood and opened the door. “Be careful,” she murmured as Ghost darted out of the room, startling her guards as the white beast streaked past them. She greeted her guards in the Dothraki tongue then shut the door and turned back to the bed. Still, Jon had not stirred. She watched him for a moment, her anger and frustration resurfacing.

If he wanted to drink himself into a stupor, perhaps Tyrion’s bed was a more fitting place for him. Peevishly, Dany hoped his hangover was cruel and unforgiving when he finally woke. After using the privy, Dany pulled her wardrobe for the day from her trunk, a black long-sleeved gown, carmine-colored pants and a thick cape lined in ermine. She’d already stripped out of her nightgown when her handmaids appeared. Neither was scandalized by the sight of Jon in her bed, but they cast him curious glances before hurrying over to help her dress—no doubt because her bed had been conspicuously solitary for days now.

As her handmaids braided her hair in simple plaits, Dany kept an eye on Jon. When it appeared he wasn’t going to wake in time to break his fast with her in the Great Hall, she instructed her handmaids to start a fire and have a bath brought up while she feasted.

“Make sure the water is as hot as you can get it,” she told them before she left.

When she arrived in the Great Hall, escorted by her guards, she saw that she was one of the last guests to arrive. On the raised dais at the front, Lady Sansa and Lord Stark were already seated and eating. Arya—Dany had learned early on the girl detested any official title—was absent, but perhaps she was lost among the bannermen where she often took her meals.

Tyrion sat at the head table as a guest of honor, both as a member of her small council and as a member of one of the Great Houses. Two empty seats separated him from the Stark siblings, waiting for Lord Snow and the queen to arrive. Dany’s other advisors sat at a trestle table up front. Missandei, Grey Worm, and Ser Jorah rose to greet her when she walked past them, and she smiled warmly at them. She didn’t give any credence to the fact that none of the Northern lords rose in her presence.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, unusually cheerful. He’d cut back on his drinking since she’d made him Hand of the Queen, but he wasn’t one to give up his crutch completely. Indeed, he was clutching a goblet full of red wine and seemed more interested in it than the spread of fish, boiled sausages and eggs laid out before him. 

“Good morning, my lord.” On the dais at her seat, Dany greeted the Stark siblings with a more subdued smile. Lady Sansa, dutifully polite as always, welcomed her.

“I hope you slept well, Your Grace,” she said, her voice and face placid, hinting at nothing. Sometimes, she was harder to read than the brother who sat beside her now.

“I did, thank you,” Dany lied as she took her seat and accepted a plate of food from a serving girl. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she had much of an appetite this morning. She hadn’t been very hungry the past few mornings, the smell of the Northern delicacies making her stomach turn in mild protest. She hoped she’d get used to the food sooner rather than later. In the meantime, she took her goblet of wine and sipped it gingerly.

“Will Lord Snow be joining us this morning?” Tyrion asked at her right. When she shot him a quelling look, he hid his amusement in his cup.

“I think Lord Snow has taken one too many pointers from you in his drink consumption,” she replied frostily.

Tyrion hummed thoughtfully as he spooned some broth into his bowl. “Clearly not enough if he’s laid low by a measly hangover. But I think you’ll have to take this one up with Sandor Clegane. If my sources are correct, Lord Snow was drinking ale with him all last night, and I find the ale up North too crude for my refined tongue.”

She rolled her eyes and placed a small forkful of fish in her mouth, forcing it down after a few bites. If she could stomach a raw horse’s heart, she could manage roasted carp. As she ate, she kept a neutral expression on her face, lest the guests in the hall take umbrage with her distaste for their food. She felt their eyes on her, so she nibbled on a boiled egg. While some of her khalasar and the Unsullied were given seats in the Great Hall to feast, most were camped outside. There wasn’t room to host the entirety of her army, of course, but the Northerners were wary if not outright hostile toward the Essosi warriors taking up residence inside Winterfell’s walls.

“You must tell me how you manage to eat with such a rapt audience all the time, Your Grace,” Tyrion said to her after he'd sipped a spoonful of broth, having noticed the number of eyes watching her.

She swallowed the mushy egg and sipped her wine to wash it down. “Something tells me you’re quite used to an audience,” she volleyed back. However obnoxious her Hand could be, she appreciated his attempts to distract her.

“A Lannister _and_ a dwarf, who’d once been suspected of pushing the young Lord Stark out of a tower—and I imagine _still_ suspected by some,” Tyrion mused, eyeing the crowd. “You’re right. I do tend to draw an unusual amount of attention when I come North, but I think the beautiful silver-haired Targaryen queen is what catches their eye this time.”

She smiled humorlessly at that. “You mean, the Mad Dragon Queen whose cunt is as deep and treacherous as the Wolfswood.”

Tyrion had just lifted his goblet to his mouth, and he choked on his wine, coughing to clear it from his throat. “Seven Hells. You heard that one?”

She smiled wider despite herself and swept her gaze out over the hall. “My khalasar doesn't hold anything back when they share the local gossip with me wherever we go. I think they were rather proud of that one, actually.”

With a gruff chuckle, Tyrion shook his head. “Really, it’s all quite flattering if you think about it. Legends precede you. Men fear you.”

She sighed. “Yes, but it reduces all my value, good or bad, to what’s between my legs.”

“For some of us, Your Grace, that’s all we have to offer,” Tyrion retorted drolly. She raised her eyebrows before flicking her eyes to Sansa down the table.

“Your bluntness is always so refreshing. Did you speak so crudely to your lady wife?” she asked. As expected, he grimaced.

“Gods, no. And don’t let Lord Snow even hear the suggestion.”

Dany’s mood soured. “ _Lord Snow_ would have to cease his wallowing in self-pity before he could catch on to what’s happening around him.”

Tyrion gave her a pitying look. He was one of the select few who knew about Jon's parentage. The news had been a shock to them all, a delicate truth most knew to handle with caution, but Tyrion had referred to Jon as Aegon in a council meeting once, rather flippantly, until Jon's potent glower wiped the humor from Tyrion's face.

“Ah. Perhaps you should grant him some mercy. It’s a bitter drink to swallow, learning your own blood lied to you.” Tyrion spoke darkly, as if from experience. Dany could understand that. How many lies had Viserys made her swallow?

Tyrion continued, “Of course, you and I already had some inkling of the monsters who sired us. To hear talk, Ned Stark was one of the last honorable men of the realm, and Rhaegar, while reckless and foolish, was renowned to be kind and well-liked. So, really, Jon Snow has fared rather well with his lineage, all things considered.”

Dany fell quiet as she contemplated his words. Tyrion was right, really. Jon had brooded long enough. He could mourn the idea of himself he'd lost, but she wasn’t going to let him sink under his own pity. None of them could afford that.

Summoning a serving girl, Dany instructed, “Please bring a bowl of broth to my chambers.” The servant curtsied and turned to retrieve the broth, but, as an afterthought, Dany asked, “Do you have something for aches and pains?”

“Dreamwine, Your Grace,” the girl said, keeping her head down. “Or oak bark works in a pinch.”

Dreamwine was the last thing Jon needed right now. “Oak bark tea, then.” She touched the girl’s arm, bringing her gaze up finally. Dany smiled. “Thank you.” With a flush, the girl hurried off.

Taking one last fortifying quaff of her wine, Dany stood up from the table. Tyrion made to stand as well, but she waved him off then turned to the Starks. “Lord Stark, Lady Sansa,” she spoke with a quick smile, “thank you for the meal and hospitality. If you will excuse me. I shall see you all in the council room later.”

 _And I’ll drag Jon kicking and screaming if I have to,_ she thought determinedly as she walked through the Great Hall, no longer noticing the sidelong stares. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself, and neither did Jon. None of them did. Everyday it got colder and the snow fell heavier, signaling the relentless approach of the Others.

Her Dothraki guards trailed her back to her chambers and took their watch at her door as she let herself inside. Jon was still asleep on her bed but turned onto his side now. A new fire burned hot in the brazier, and a copper tub had been brought in and filled with water, as she’d requested. Tendrils of steam curled off the surface, and she strode to it to test the temperature with her fingers. Perfect. So far, the hot springs that warmed the halls of Winterfell were her favorite part of the North.

When she heard a hesitant knock on the door, she called for the visitor to enter. It was the serving girl from earlier, bowl in one hand and a cup in the other. “The broth and tea as you requested, Your Grace,” she said, after rising from a curtsy.

“Thank you. You may put it beside the bed.”

The girl obeyed but stopped short at the sight of Jon on top of the sleeping furs. Her cheeks colored, and she hastily set the items down on the bedside table. Then, after another rushed curtsy, she scurried out the door.

Dany glanced at Jon and sighed. Scooping a handful of bath water into her cupped hand, she moved to the side of the bed and carefully trickled it onto his face. It took a moment to register with him, but he flinched awake and reflexively swatted at his face as his eyes snapped open.

“Seven hells,” he croaked, blinking bleary-eyed at her. “What was that for?”

“To wake you,” she said simply, patting her hand dry on her cape. “You missed breakfast.”

With a wince, he struggled into a sitting position, clutching his head. Perplexed, he glanced around her chambers then at her. He seemed to gradually regain his memory of the night before, and he let out a pained exhale. “Dany. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come last night—not in that state—I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“I know exactly what you were thinking,” she told him tartly, lifting an eyebrow, and he looked down with a grimace. She pressed her lips together to quell an exasperated frown. It would be more fun teasing him if he didn’t take himself so seriously. Then again, he wouldn’t be Jon, the man she’d come to adore so fiercely.

“Headache?” she asked him when he rubbed his temple.

“Aye,” he grumbled. She moved to the bedside table to pick up the tea and handed it to him.

“This should help. I also have broth for any nausea.” Gingerly, Jon took the cup she offered and sipped the tea. Dany clasped her hands together as she watched him then continued, “Once you’re done with that, take off your clothes.”

The cup froze at his mouth, and he lifted his eyes to her, stunned. He swallowed the mouthful of tea. “What?”

Dany pinned him with an innocent look. “I had a bath drawn for you. You reek as if you’ve been soaking in ale all night.”

Again, his expression darkened with embarrassment and regret, and he drank the tea in silence. After he finished, he cleared his throat. “Thank you. Dany.” A pregnant pause buffered his next words. “I know I don’t deserve your kindness right now.”

She didn’t respond, turning away as he stood to undress, pulling off his boots and his wrinkled clothes. She took the time to unplait her braids, sending out a silent apology to her handmaids for undoing their meticulous work. Combing out the long strands with her fingers, she looked over her shoulder when Jon stepped into the tub and let out a pained hiss as he slowly sank into the water.

“Gods, this water is hot,” he groused, teeth gritted, as he draped his arms over the sides of the tub. Dany faced him.

“I guess it hasn’t had much time to cool,” she said, then she began to disrobe as well. Jon went still at the sight of her undressing, and his hands curled over the lip of the tub.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice a thick, glottal catch in his throat. With her boots off, she pulled her gown over her head.

“I could use a bath myself. I’m not sure I smell much better than you, after having lain beside you all night.”

Stepping out of her trousers and her small clothes, Dany tiptoed to the opposite end of the tub and hiked her leg over the side. The scalding water soothed her tender pale skin as she submerged herself in it, drawing her knees up to avoid bumping into Jon’s bent legs. The water had been scented with some oils, giving off a faint floral scent.

Jon’s eyes riveted on her naked form, his skin made pink from the water—and from arousal, if his stiff erection was any indication. When he realized she’d caught him staring, he quickly looked away. Embarrassed to be lusting after his kin, she supposed.

Dany released a small sigh and grabbed a cloth the servants had left on a stool by the tub. Her hair fell down her back and around her shoulders, floating in the water like a silvery cloud. The water came up to her chest, swelling around the rosy tips of her breasts with her every movement. Picking up the hard lye soap, she dunked the cloth and the bar in the water before she lathered the two together.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps I should wait until after you’ve bathed.”

She had to repress a laugh, one born of frustration and the absurdity of his discomfort. Soaping up her arm, she shook her head. “Jon. You’re acting like this is the first bath we’ve taken together. I remember sharing one a time or two on the ship to White Harbor.”

“It was different then,” he muttered, turning his head, eyes finding the window that overlooked the courtyard. All that could be seen from the tub were snow-covered trees and a grey sky thick with ominous clouds.

Dany scrubbed at her other arm. “You were my nephew then as much as you are now. Knowing it or not knowing it doesn’t change the truth of our blood relation,” she pointed out as reasonably as she could; she refrained from reminding him Targaryens often wedded kin of closer relation than aunt and nephew. Jon let out an incredulous huff and dropped his head on the back of the tub.

“That’s not the problem,” he finally said, voice low. Dany paused in her cleaning to consider his words before she resumed scrubbing her neck and chest.

“Then tell me the problem. Enough with the moping.”

Even with his chin tipped back, she saw his lips pull into a pout. “I’m not moping,” he said and lifted his head. “You don’t—” His protest stuck in his throat when he saw her soaping up her breasts, and he swallowed thickly.

“I don’t understand?” she guessed. “I think I do. At least, more than anyone else here. Let me posit what I think I understand, and you tell me where I’m wrong.” Jon didn’t reply, his dark eyes drawn to her breasts where she rubbed the cloth over her pebbled nipples. “Your father is Rhaegar Targaryen, my brother, and your mother Lyanna Stark, meaning your presumed father, Eddard Stark, is not the father you thought him to be all your life. You feel like everything you knew about yourself is a lie. You don’t know who you’re supposed to be. You’re angry, and you feel betrayed and lost.”

After a moment, grudgingly, he admitted, “Aye, you’ve got the right of it.” With a labored sigh, he ducked under the water and came up like a divine creature emerging from one of the pools in the godswood, water sluicing through his beard and down his neck. Dany was momentarily mesmerized. Slicking his hair back from his forehead, Jon then dragged his hands down his face to wipe the water from his eyes and slumped against the tub again.

“Who am I if I’m not Ned Stark’s son?” he mused out loud. She bit her tongue, afraid if she spoke too soon he’d clam up again, as he had after Bran’s revelation. “My whole life, I tried to mold myself in his image. To be the kind of man I thought he was, the kind of man he taught me to be. But all anyone ever saw when they looked at me was a bastard. I was born of greed and wickedness in their eyes. I worried they were right, but I tried not to be selfish, to want anything purely for myself. I thought, if Ned Stark’s blood ran through my veins, I could be, _must_ be, honorable and just and kind. But...I don’t know what I am now.”

Dany’s hands fluttered in the water, and she stilled the rag, taking a deep breath. “You’re a Targaryen, Jon. You’re a dragon. Like me.”

His face creased, brow knotting, like the thought pained him. “No—”

She firmed her mouth, her throat closing up, but she forced the words out. “ _Listen to me._ You are a dragon. The blood that runs through my veins runs through yours. Yet, you’re a wolf. You’re a Stark as much as you’re a Targaryen. The blood that ran through Eddard Stark’s veins does run through you—through his sister's blood. Was she any less honorable, any less noble than her brother?”

“I don’t bloody know. He never told me anything about my mother—or his sister.” Jon scowled darkly. “Now I know why.”

Dany took a deep breath and sat forward, her feet slipping beneath his thighs. “Rhaegar died before I was born, but I’ve heard the tales. He was kind, revered. He loved music and poetry. He hated fighting even though he was good at it. And I imagine, if he loved your mother, if she was reason enough to throw the entire kingdom into chaos and bring all of Westeros to its knees, she must have been quite a woman.”

Jon didn’t look convinced or moved. His frown only deepened as he met her gaze. “My father—your brother—betrayed his wife. His children.”

She looked down, her lashes beating against her cheeks until she forced her chin up and held his gaze. She hated thinking poorly of her family, but her stomach knotted every time she remembered Rhaegar’s betrayal. “Yes. And he was wrong for that. But all this time you accepted Eddard Stark as your father, thinking he’d betrayed his wife and family. Did you hate him for it?”

Jon let out a bitter laugh. “Some days I did.” After a beat, he shook his head. “I came to understand even the best of men can be weak.” His eyes opened and looked at her. “‘Love is the death of duty.’ Maester Aemon said that to me once. On the Night’s Watch. ‘What is honor compared to a woman's love?’ he said. I didn’t understand then.”

Eyes downcast, Dany lifted her hands from the water and slowly wrung out the rag. Two Targaryens, together, half a world away from her. The thought still had the ability to rob her of her breath. She’d thought she was alone, the last of her family, her house. She _had_ been alone. Maester Aemon had thought himself alone as well, a man stripped of his identity out of obligation to the realm.

And Jon, whose legitimacy was a threat to himself, kept isolated all his life, never quite belonging anywhere, not with the Starks or with his brothers on the Wall.

She could weep at the injustice of it all, and the rightness of it _now_ , if she didn’t still want to slap him with the wet rag. He could be so _dense_.

Finding the soap at the bottom of the tub, she soaped up the rag again. “Maester Aemon sounds like a smart man,” she said lightly. “Except, it seems to me, his statement implies there can be no honor in a woman’s love.”

Jon stared at her, his eyes narrowing in thought. His lips parted and closed, as if he wanted to object, but her words had momentarily stumped him. Dipping the rag under the water, she parted her thighs and cleaned her mound with slow, deliberate strokes between the folds. His eyes followed the movement of her hand. His erection had deflated during their conversation, but it rose again now before he could make himself avert his eyes.

The lines in his forehead revealed his agitation. He struggled to find the thread of the conversation again. “I don’t think that’s what Maester Aemon meant. Love makes us do foolish things. Makes us forsake our vows, our duty. It makes liars and fools of us all. Rhaegar. Ned.”

 _Me_ , she thought, thinking of the dragon she’d lost flying beyond the Wall for Jon. The thought made her angry. She sat up straighter, the rag clutched in her hand. “It seems to me, Lord Stark’s love for his sister strengthened his duty to her and her kin. He saved you.”

Jon didn’t want to let it go. “He _lied_ to me—”

“He protected you!” she interrupted, more fiercely than before. “He lied to save you from the same faith as Rhaegar’s other children. Your brother and sister. He lied to protect you from the Usurper’s wrath that would have certainly condemned you to death or to exile. You could have been in Essos with my brother and I, always running, never safe. You could be dead like Viserys, after being driven mad by destitution, or sold to the Unsullied or the fighting pits or some slaver’s house.”

Jon was quiet now, rebuked by her speech. In the silence, Dany rinsed off the rag and lathered it again with the soap. Then she shifted closer between his parted legs and began to wash him, running the soapy cloth up his shin to the bend of his knee, peaking above the water.

“I didn't mean to make light of the horrors you’ve endured,” he said solemnly.

She shook her head. “I know you didn’t. And I don’t mean to guilt you. We are merely the products of our situations. I only want you to see that by deceiving you, Lord Stark gave you a gift. He lied, out of duty and love to his sister. And to you.” She switched to his other leg. “Rhaegar might be your father, but Lord Stark raised you. Both things can be true. You are his son, as much as Rhaegar’s. Maybe more so.”

Seeming to cede her point, Jon splashed his face again then leaned his head back. Dany slithered closer, shifting onto her knees between his legs. He stared at the ceiling, lost in thought, even as she lightly touched the rag to his stomach. She wished she could shake him and tell him how lucky he was. Imperfect as he might have been, Rhaegar was considered a decent man by the people who knew him best. Lord Stark, too. Jon didn’t have the looming shadow of the Mad King hanging over him, not like she did.

“What a bloody mess,” Jon declared, still cross. “My parents are the reason we’re in this predicament.”

She finally smiled, rubbing a gentle circle on his abdomen, around and along his scar, through the trail of black hair bisecting his pelvis. He might have been ignoring her ministrations, but his cock wasn’t. It was swollen beneath the water, flushed with heat and blood.

“Was the Night King so incensed by their love, he plotted to invade Westeros some 20-odd years later?” she asked wryly, arching an eyebrow. His eyes cut to her, and he scowled with no malice.

“Of course not. But the Targaryens wouldn’t have been killed and banished, Robert Baratheon wouldn’t have become king, the Lannisters wouldn’t have ascended to the throne, Ned Stark wouldn’t have been beheaded, Robb wouldn’t have been murdered by the Freys, and Winterfell wouldn’t have fallen into Bolton hands.”

“I wouldn’t have my dragons,” she reminded him. “You wouldn’t have discovered dragonglass and the means to defeat the Others.” He didn’t have an immediate reply to that, so she draped the wet cloth over the side of the tub and leaned into him, her hands gripping the lip of the copper tub behind his shoulders. His dark eyes flicked over her face.

“You know what I think,” she started.

He lifted his eyebrows. “I think you’re going to tell me.”

Her smile was faint, slipping away before she continued, her violet eyes smoldering with the heat of her belief. She actually felt lightheaded with excitement. “I think it’s _extraordinary_. The whole of our house destroyed and reduced to two lone Targaryens thousands of leagues apart. And yet, we survived. You were murdered by cravens, but you were reborn. And then you found me. And only together can we save the realm from forces that would destroy us all. If Lord Stark were alive today, I’d get on my knees and thank him for keeping you alive as long as he did, Jon Snow.”

His chest rose and fell with his quickening breaths, as if her excitement was contagious. His throat constricted with a swallow, and he lifted a hand from the water, tenderly skimming his wet fingertips over her cheek. “I’m sorry you were alone for so long.”

She smiled. “Don’t be. I’m not alone anymore.” Releasing the sides of the tub, she cupped his face in her hands, his beard damp and spongy beneath her palms. “Neither of us has to be alone anymore.”

He rested his hands on her naked hips and dragged his eyes from the silver-haired sheath between her legs to her full, rose-pointed breasts. He let out a breath and finally lifted his gaze to her face. “Gods, Dany. I shouldn’t want you this much,” he murmured hoarsely.

The corners of her mouth curled upward. “Says who?” she whispered. “I think this is exactly where you’re meant to be, Jon.” Drawing his face to hers, she flicked her tongue out to catch a bead of water from the tip of his nose. He shuddered, a tortured sound catching in his throat. His fingers tightened on her hips, digging pink divots in her pale flesh. She felt his cock graze the inside of her thigh and knew she was slick with arousal, too.

Pressing his lips together, Jon sucked in a breath through his nose before letting it out, then brought his hand up to slide it into her hair. She stifled a surprised gasp when he tugged on the roots, lightning shooting to the points of her breasts and down to her cunt. He held her face close.

“It does seem the fates have brought you and I together,” he said thoughtfully. The blunt edge of his thumbnail scratched back and forth over her scalp, making her shudder. “I don't think I could leave you even if I wanted to.”

His breath was hot on her lips, a kiss in itself, but she wouldn’t be the one to make the first move. She held his stare boldly. “And do you? Want to leave me?”

His gaze sharpened, framed by dark lashes spiked with water. “Gods be good, _never_.”

Her heart swelled, and Jon crushed his mouth to hers, slipping his tongue between her lips. She wanted to sob with relief. _Finally_ , she thought, tasting the bitter oak bark tea on his tongue. Still, his kiss was sweet. It’d been too long. Only days, but she’d grown used to waking every morning with his lips on her face and breasts and, when more daring, between her thighs.

He kissed her desperately, like his tongue couldn’t reach deep enough, like he’d felt the absence of her as much as she’d felt his. Sucking on his tongue, Dany levered herself on the lip of the tub to climb into his lap. Water sloshed over the sides, splattering on the stone floor. Her nipples puckered tightly in the chilly air, and Jon wrapped his arms around her waist to hug her to him, her breasts pillowed on his chest.

She slid down his torso, sinking into the water, and he groaned as she rubbed against his erection. Nipping her lip between his teeth, he thrust his tongue into her mouth in a crude simulation of what she hoped he meant to do with his cock.

 _My wild wolf_ , she thought, crazed, wild herself with lust and need. Her legs were cramped, bent awkwardly around him and pinned between his hips and the tub. She clung to his shoulders and writhed against his chest, feeling the silky skin of his cock chafe her stomach in the water.

“Dany,” he groaned against her lips, tongue brushing hers with each loving syllable. He grabbed her arse and guided the frantic rolls of her hips, grunting as his cock swelled with her measured efforts. Her cunt ached, a sharp, pulsing emptiness that clenched greedily around nothing, eager for the intrusion of his shaft.

Lifting herself up, Dany shifted over him, grateful when he reached between them to grab his cock and guide her down on him. The rounded tip parted her lower lips, her arousal slicking his entry even in the water. She sat down on him, taking his thick cock into the firm vise of her channel as he thrust into her.

“ _Jon_ ,” she gasped, back bowing as he stretched her, the head of his cock kissing the back of her womb with a pleasurable kind of discomfort. He groaned in answer, dipping his head back in relish. She grew impatient and jerked her hips against his. Hungrily, he lifted his head and opened his mouth over her breast. Her stiff nipples felt more tender than usual, and she cried out as he caught one between his teeth and gave a vicious pull. Even so, her cunt pulsed with pleasure around his cock, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him close, quivering as he sucked at first one breast then the other, ravaging the peaks until they were sanguine and raw.

She was wet and slippery where he was buried inside her, her clitoris swollen, sparking chills of pleasure up her spine every time she rubbed against him. Jon cupped the curves of her bottom, squeezing and lifting her, dragging her slick cunt up the stem of his cock before thrusting into her again. They both gasped, oblivious to the water that trickled over the sides of the tubs with their frantic movements.

Dany grabbed onto the tub again so she could ride him relentlessly, swallowing his cock into the wet heat of her cunt again and again until Jon grabbed her hips to stop her, his face flushed and contorted in strain.

“What?” she asked, panting, but he clenched his jaw and shook his head. He embraced her, drawing her tight to his chest, then he surged to his feet. Surprised, she clung to him, tightening her thighs around his waist. Water rained from their bodies, and her skin erupted in gooseflesh. She gasped, her muscles tightening against the chill as Jon stepped out of the tub with her, his cock slipping from inside her. With one arm hitched under her bottom, he grabbed her bed robe from the stool and flung it around her. The thin, silky material clung to her body like a second skin, instantly soaked.

He dropped them down onto her bed, burrowing them in the piles of sleeping furs. His breathing was harsh and loud, but his urgency slowed for a moment, tempered as he kissed her, gently stroking her tongue with his. Though she ached for a release, her heart pounding in her ears and between her thighs, she melted with his kiss and threaded her fingers through his wet curls to hold him to her as their tongues played together.

But she was too needy, too deprived for too long, to endure his languid tenderness. Scratching her fingers down through his beard, Dany sucked on his bottom lip and tugged it between her teeth until he hissed and jerked against her, his cock slipping through her wet folds below.

 _“Ñuha jorrāelagon_ ,” she whispered, nipping at his top lip and stroking the tip of her tongue along the tender flesh between lip and teeth. “It’s been so long. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He shuddered as she sucked on his lip, letting out a breath, and his heavily lidded eyes met hers. The black pupils fattened, nearly swallowing the whole of the irises. He was hungry. Good. Because she was _famished_.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, voice low and throaty. Teasing. Not too long ago, she might have mistaken his rhetorical play for one of earnestness. His humor was as subdued as he. But he didn’t expect her to answer, not truthfully, not specifically. He only wanted her to beg. Jon Snow had a surprisingly wicked streak when it came to lovemaking.

But dragons did not beg.

Eyes flaring with lustful fever, she grabbed his face in her hands and pulled it down to her mouth, nuzzling his cheek. She licked the shell of his ear then dipped her tongue inside. Jon made a sound of surprise, and she breathed hotly into his ear as she murmured, “I want your cock inside me. I want you to put me on my hands and knees and fuck me. Fuck me until I come, fuck me until my legs are shaking, fuck me until I’m weeping from the pleasure of it.”

Jon let out a tortured moan and abruptly turned his head to take her mouth in a kiss, plunging his tongue inside. His hand groped between them to cup her breast, squeezing and molding the plentiful mound in his palm, twisting and pulling the nipple until she arched and gasped, lifting her legs up to wrap around him.

But he pushed her legs off and sat up, rising above her. He forced her onto her belly, peeling the drenched robe from her back. Dany pushed herself onto her knees, letting out a husky yelp when he grabbed her hips and pulled her before him. She flattened her hands on the bed, bracing herself for the sudden, thick slide of his cock into her channel.

Instead, his tongue sought entrance, plunging between her wet lower lips, lapping up the sweet nectar leaking from her. She moaned and arched into him, dropping her forehead to the furs. His beard tickled and scratched, abrading the sensitive flesh of her cunt. Jon licked her hungrily, from the apex of her cunt and the tender nub of her clitoris, to the puckered furrow between her cheeks. Dany gasped, face burning with shame and excitement, and she pushed back onto him, growing hotter and wetter as he ran his hands up and down the swell of her arse, spreading her cheeks, fingers teasing in between, pressing experimentally. He groaned when he felt her hole clench, then returned to her cunt to lap greedily at the sweetness dripping only too easily.

She was bereft when she felt his mouth leave her, but she welcomed the intrusion of his cock as he pushed into her cunt, yanking her hips back until her bottom slapped against his pelvis. Jon grunted as he pumped his member inside her, pressing the heel of his hand into the small of her back to force her torso down and her arse up higher.

Her legs split over the muscled firmness of his thighs. He held her up by her hips as he worked himself inside her, the force of his thrusts causing her knees to spread too wide apart on the silky fur covers. Dany gasped for breath, trying to muffle her cries so the whole of Winterfell didn’t know the White Wolf was mounting the Dragon Queen. She clutched and groped at the furs, the hot walls of her cunt clutching and pushing against his hard shaft every time he pistoned it inside her. She was wet enough to ease his entry, but he didn’t lessen the power of his thrusts, as if he felt the paradoxical push and pull of her cunt around him. She didn’t know if she wanted to fight him or submit, her limbs quivering, her vision dimming every time his cockhead kissed her womb. Though Jon always took her in this position with care and savage reverence, something in her struggled each time, no matter how many times she asked it of him.

Jon always ended the struggle, conquering her by deftly stroking her clitoris, making her tighten around his cock and come and bury her sobs of pleasure into the coverlets. This time was no exception, and as she quaked around his shaft, Jon buried his full length inside her and spilled, stroking shallowly as her pulsing cunt milked his seed from him. The wet sounds of his strokes inside her were as loud and erotic as his heavy breaths and her suppressed moans.

As the pulsing of his cock ebbed, he slipped free of her channel, falling back on his haunches with a guttural sigh. Guiding her by her hips, he pulled her back against his chest and held her close as she sucked down air. Her head rested on his shoulder, skin dewy with sweat and the remnants of their bath. Jon reached a hand between her legs and cupped her mound, applying just the right amount of pressure with the heel of his palm to make her shudder all over again, coaxing out the lingering shocks of her release. He knew her body so well.

Sated and pleased, Dany hummed softly and hugged his arm to her belly. His breath washed over her face as he tucked his chin against her face, his beard tickling her cheek. “What do you do to me?” she murmured sleepily.

“Only what you ask, Your Grace,” he said thickly, humor in his voice.

She laughed, but the sound faded, and she opened her eyes. That was still something they hadn’t discussed. The thought soured the moment. Carefully, she disentangled herself from his embrace. She felt his confusion from the tension in his body as he pulled his arm away, and she turned to face him.

His seed slipped down her inner thighs, making her uncomfortably damp between her legs. The chill in the air was quickly cooling her sweat-slicked skin, and she gathered the furs around her. “I suppose you shouldn’t call me that anymore,” she said.

His face darkened, and she knew he understood what she referred to. “I swore my fealty to you, Dany, making you my queen. That hasn’t changed.”

She lifted her chin, though her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Everything has changed. The Iron Throne is yours by right, Jon.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t want it. You know I never have,” he said. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I never asked to be Lord Commander, and I sure never asked to be King in the North.”

“But you took on the mantle all the same because you felt you had a duty to your people, didn’t you?” she reminded him. “You might not want it, but you’d take the throne if you thought your people needed you. If you thought you were the best person to lead.”

He glanced away, brooding, but just as quickly he looked back to her. “A good leader doesn’t mean I’d be the best ruler. And this realm already has a capable ruler in you.”

At that, Dany dipped her chin, suddenly overwhelmed and speechless. Jon moved closer to her, taking her upper arms in his hands and forcing her to look at him. “I conceded the title of King in the North once I knew I could trust you to take care of my people and everyone in this kingdom. I shouldn’t have even been named King in the North. I’m not a Stark.” He scoffed. “I was just a bloody bastard for all they knew. They’ll really shit themselves when they learn I’m a Targaryen.” She flashed him a brief, watery smile. “Rights and titles don’t matter to me, Dany. The throne is yours once you’ve earned it. And you will. I’ll be by your side to help ensure that you do.”

She swallowed again and licked her lips. “After we defeat the Night King.”

The determination she’d missed the past few days returned, swift and strong. Jon gave a curt nod. “Aye.” He continued to gaze at her, unreadable emotions flickering through his eyes. She watched him, her brow knotted with concern. After a moment, he set his jaw and released her arm to cup her face. His touch was gentle. She thought she felt the faintest of trembles in the tips. Her violet eyes searched his.

“I don’t want to take the throne from you. I hope you know me well enough to know that, but I can think of at least one way to ease your fears.”

“Jon—” she started, heart thumping wildly with an emotion she couldn’t name, but whatever she wanted to say was forgotten with his next words.

“Marry me, Dany.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...already planning another part. I just can't quit these two. Btw: You can find me on tumblr at muttpeeta.tumblr.com.


	4. so, baby, can we dance through an avalanche?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany discover they have seemingly done the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've realized I've fallen into a rather predictable formula with this story: conflict followed by makeup sex, and I definitely have not strayed from that formula in this chapter, whoops :x Hopefully the smut is enough to make up for the repetitiveness and relentless drama between these two. Are they going to continue to fuck like rabbits leading up to and through the duration of the war? Hell yeah, if I have any say in it! Anyway, none of this is scientific or probably logical in the slightest. I just really wanted to deal with the baby bomb before the war begins. Not that I'm planning to write the war into this story. The only kind of sparring I enjoy writing is the unresolved-sexual-tension kind.

_No._

The dull, satisfying _thwack_  of Valyrian steel on wood rang through the yard as Jon slashed relentlessly at the pell. The post was a poor target and an even poorer sparring partner, but he’d already sent his men to bed for the night, leaving only the practice post to bear the brunt of his frustrations.

_I can’t marry you, Jon._

He struck the pell again, harder this time. _No._ Harder still. _No_. Again, and again. Chips of wood went flying under Longclaw’s bite, showering the white ground with splintered shavings that looked black under the dark mantle of night.

 _I can’t marry you, Jon_.

When he swung Longclaw a last time, he threw his full weight into the strike, shearing off a piece of wood the size of his forearm. It soared into the night sky.

“ _Fuck!”_ Jon yelled then stopped to gulp down greedy lungfuls of bitterly frigid air. The chunk of wood landed yards away with a wet thud, sinking deep into the snow. He stared at the shortened pell without seeing it as he gasped for breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Despite the cold licking at his face and creeping beneath the collar of his fur cloak and leather armor, sweat poured down his back and trickled into his eyes.

With a juddering breath, Jon sheathed his sword in the scabbard at his waist and wiped at his stinging eyes with gloved hands. Other than his quiet pants, the yard was silent. Overhead, the moon was the only light, casting Winterfell in sinister shadows. Everyone else was long asleep, or else in the armory or in the towers along the wall, fortifying the castle for war and keeping a lookout for the dead.

He felt a watchful gaze on his back and turned, expecting the vigilant glow of Ghost’s red eyes. The direwolf was nowhere to be found around the courtyard, however. Unbidden, Jon cast his eyes to the Guest House, up toward a window he knew well. He didn’t find anyone there, either.

Vexed, Jon turned away. And why should he expect to find her there, watching him? She’d rejected his suit. Rejected _him_. She didn’t want him.

Before he could be tempted to unsheathe Longclaw again and finish hacking the pell to a stub, Jon turned toward the armory. His boots crunched down into the wet snow as he stalked across the yard, the only sound to disrupt the eerie silence. Inside the armory, he found Gendry, bare-chested and even sweatier than Jon as he hammered at a sword. Since arriving at Winterfell, he’d become a man obsessed, forging blades and spears and arrowheads from the generous reserve of mined dragonglass.

Robert Baratheon’s bastard looked up in greeting, dark shadows under his eyes. “M’lord,” Gendry said before striking a piece of dragonglass with stone in hand as he braced the glass on an anvil. 

Jon shook his head as he unstrapped his scabbard from his waist. “Jon will do,” he said, still short of breath. Unsheathing Longclaw, Jon tossed the scabbard aside and sat down on a stool. Gendry watched him grab an oilcloth and start to clean the blade.

“I can do that for you,” he offered, setting aside his primitive dragonglass blade.

“My father taught me to always clean my own weapons. Builds character,” Jon said, smoothing the oilcloth down the sword. But Ned Stark wasn’t his father, was he? He pressed his lips together.

“Know what else builds character? Sleep.”

Jon chuckled. Gendry held out his hand for the sword, but Jon hesitated, not yet ready to relinquish the duty. “You look like you could use some rest, as well.”

“Aye, but I’m not the commander of a large army in a war to save the kingdom.”

Conceding the point, Jon handed Longclaw to the blacksmith and stood up. “Careful with that blade.”

Gendry grinned. “Worried about my hand or the sword?”

Jon’s smile was grim. “Both. We’re going to need them both.”

When he left the armory, instead of heading to the Great Keep and his chambers for that much-needed rest as he knew he ought to, Jon turned to the crypts near the First Keep. His mouth twisted bitterly; his bed wouldn’t be any warmer than the tombs, anyway. Down the narrow, winding steps, with lantern in hand, Jon followed the darkness ever deeper beneath Winterfell. Underfoot, his boots ground loose gravel into the stones as he descended. At the bottom of the stairs the lantern pitched a faint light down the long vault of the underground crypts. As he walked, he noted that someone had left a torch burning; he could see the faint fire flickering in the distance, growing brighter as he strode deeper into the crypts.

It was a familiar path to him now, the one that led to his mother. He followed it to the end.

No, not the end, he reminded himself. Beyond her rested the remains of Eddard Stark and Rickon, the latest additions to the procession of the dead. Someday, it would contain Robb’s bones, too, once—if—they were ever found.

Setting his lantern down, Jon rested a hand on the stone tomb and raised his eyes to the lifeless gaze that received him.

Lyanna Stark. _Mother_. All he had of her was this statue, a poor replica of the She-Wolf of Winterfell. Wild and beautiful she’d once been, if the stories were to be believed. Now, she was only ash and bones and cold to the touch.

Releasing a weary breath, he dropped his hand and stepped back. He didn’t know what he’d come for, but he hadn’t found it any of the other times he’d been down to the crypts. Only grief and ghosts and the ever-creeping cold.

The echo of footsteps disturbed his introspection. Looking sharply toward whence he came, Jon watched a small, hooded figure emerge from the edges of light cast by the lantern and torch. As the shadow glided closer, the light caught the silvery rope of her hair. If that hadn’t given her away, the white direwolf trotting behind her would have. Jon held his tongue as she approached, and Daenerys stopped a few paces away from him, meeting his icy stare without so much as a flinch. Ghost sat back on his haunches at her heels as she turned her violet eyes to his mother’s tomb.

“Is this her?” she asked, her voice hushed in reverence. She pushed the fur-lined hood off her head. Her hair draped over her shoulder in a simple plait, lending her a softness he wasn’t used to. Without the usual, intricate braids holding her hair back, loose strands of silver-gold hung around her face, making her seem as if she were merely a pretty maiden from some song or one of Old Nan’s tales, not the infamous Dragon Queen.

“What’s left of her,” Jon said stiffly, turning away. “What are you doing down here?”

“I saw you in the courtyard. From my window.”

So she had been watching him after all. Any other time, he might have ruffled with pride at that, but he was in a sour mood. He’d been in a sour mood ever since yesterday morning in her chambers, when, still flushed with pleasure from their lovemaking, she’d told him she wouldn’t marry him.

“Where are your guards?” he asked gruffly, noticing for the first time she was without her loyal Dothraki escorts. “You shouldn’t walk around the grounds unprotected.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile, small and fleeting. “I’m not unprotected.” Daenerys placed a hand on Ghost’s head, stroking his silky mane affectionately. “And if anyone manages to slip past him, I have this.” She reached into her cloak and withdrew a small, black dagger.

Alarmed, he glanced at the blade. It was laughably tiny, smaller than even Needle, but sharp and keen, the dragonglass expertly hammered and sharpened to a lethal edge. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

Gingerly, she turned it over in her gloved hand, setting the flat of the blade against her palm. “Your blacksmith. Gendry. I’m not a fighter, I know. I have my dragons. But I can’t take them everywhere with me.”

Bristling, he lifted his eyes to her face and scowled. “You could hurt yourself if you’re not careful. Do you even know how to wield a blade?”

Her eyes flickered upward in exasperation as she slipped the dagger back into her cloak. He heard her agitated sigh and expected an obstinate reply. Instead, she answered truthfully. “No. Perhaps you could teach me. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

A distant memory flitted through his mind, almost pulling his mouth into a bleak smile. “Aye. Stick them with the pointy end.”

A smile curved her lips, and her eyes danced with laughter. The sight was like a knife through his gut, and he looked away, swallowing the rising lump in his throat. Anger was better than this, the excruciating longing and the dull ache in his chest, so he seized on his simmering ire, armoring himself in it.

“I think I can manage that,” she said, her gaze fixed on the side of his face. When Jon made no move to speak or acknowledge her further, she continued, her voice softer than before. “You should try to sleep more, Jon. You practice with that sword night and day. Do you ever rest?”

He bit back his scoff, narrowing his eyes at the pillar next to his mother's tomb so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at Daenerys when he answered. “There’s no time to rest. Your Grace.”

Her sigh was muted. After a moment, she said lightly, “You could try sleeping in my chambers again. If you want.”

Incredulous, he swung his gaze to her. Her face was impassive, concealing everything from him—if he didn’t know to look for the concern that pinched the skin between her brow, or the worry that creased the corners of her mouth. “You expect me in your bed? Still? Even after you turned me away?”

At his admonishment, she glanced away, her lashes a pale flutter of moth’s wings in the lantern light. “I didn’t turn you away. Just because I said no to your marriage proposal doesn’t mean I don’t want you still.”

He stared at her, lips parted wordlessly. Finally, he shook his head. “So—what is it? I’m good enough to fuck but not good enough to wed?”

Daenerys flinched. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jon turned his body toward her, fury washing through him, making his spine stiff and rigid. “Forgive me for misunderstanding then, _Your Grace_. What did you mean?” But he didn’t let her answer, charging ahead. “You know, before, when you thought I was only a bastard, I could understand not wanting to marry me—I never would have even presumed—”

“I _never_ thought less of you,” she interjected heatedly, but he ignored her.

“But _now_ , now I’m a Targaryen. Your kin. Bloody royalty. Actually worthy of the Dragon Queen. Isn’t this what you wanted? You told me—” He faltered, his voice catching, and he had to swallow. “I thought you meant for us to be together.” Licking her lips, she cast her eyes down. When she didn’t respond, he bared his teeth. “I just don’t understand why you would lie with me if you didn’t see a future for us.”

Her mouth pinched together, and she lifted her chin in stubborn defiance. “Need I remind you, _you_ were the one to seek me out that first time on the ship. It wasn't I who showed up at your cabin door.”

Her words stung, harsh and cruel and true, flaying him to the bone. His anger snapped. “ _Aye, Others take me, I took you to bed because I love you!_ ”

She looked stricken by his declaration, her creamy skin turning white as ice. But just as quickly, her mouth contorted into a sneer, her eyes flashing as if infused with amaranthine fire. Blooms of livid red inflamed her cheeks. “Don’t say that!”

Jon met her glare, insolent and mutinous. “Why not?”

“Because they very well could, you fool!” she cried.

Silence lapsed between them, and he stared at her, utterly stupefied as he tried to follow her words. Finally, he stammered out, “Are you—did you—did you not hear what I said? After that?”

Inside her thick cloak, Daenerys deflated and released a defeated breath. The warmth of it crystallized in the chilled air, a visible mist that quickly dissipated. “Yes. Of course, I heard you,” she murmured, looking away. When she didn’t say anything more, he huffed out a querulous breath.

“That’s it? You have nothing else to say to me?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “You won’t even tell me why you won’t marry me?”

The color had drained from her face again. She closed her eyes, and her chin quivered as she drew a breath through her parted lips. “It’s no use loving me, Jon. I told you I can’t have children.”

“I remember,” he said crossly. “And I asked you to marry me, anyway. I want you for my wife, Dany. Damn the rest.”

Her face turned away. “You don’t understand, Jon.” She made a sound of distress. “In some ways...I wish things were still that simple. If only you _were_  just Jon Snow, the illegitimate son of Eddard Stark. Things would be different.”

He didn’t understand. “You won’t marry me because of who I am? Because I'm not a bastard?”

She shook her head. “I won’t marry you because of who _I_ am. A cursed woman who can’t give you children.” Her expression was mournful when she lifted her eyes to his. “You and I are the last of our house, Jon. Our name cannot die with us. We can’t be the last Targaryens.”

Her plea resonated with him, the anguish and regret thick in her voice, but he reacted in anger. He wanted to lash out, at her, at the world, at the unfairness of it all. How could he feel any sort of obligation to a name and a house he’d never been a part of? It wasn’t right. “I don’t care about any of that!”

“But _I_ do. After Viserys, I thought I was the last. The whole of House Targaryen rested on my shoulders. But then…” Daenerys swallowed. “When I learned I couldn’t have children...that destroyed me. You couldn’t know, Jon. For years, I had to come to terms with the fact that the Targaryens were going to die with me. I failed my family, _our_ family, our ancestors, the blood of Old Valyria. But you...you can marry a nice Northern lady, a daughter of one of your bannermen, and sire children on her. You can carry on our family name, and your children after you.” Her eyes watered, though she forced a wan smile.

The sight gutted him, her words cutting deeper. The thought of having children with anyone but her...marrying another… “ _No_.”

Daenerys tried to make light of it. “She doesn’t have to be Northern, then. A Southern woman of nobility, if you prefer.”

Jon curled his lip. “I won’t do it. You might be the queen, but this is one thing you can’t force me to do.”

Her mouth thinned, in that familiar way that revealed her irritation. “You’re being selfish, Jon.”

He barked out a laugh. “ _Selfish?_  All my life, I gave, and I gave, and I gave, and I let everyone else take everything from me. I think if I’ve earned anything, it's being free to choose my own bloody wife.”

She let out a frustrated breath and turned away from him. “You have a _duty_. We all have our duties. We all have to do things we don’t want to do. A queen, and a king, do not belong to themselves.”

“To hell with duty,” he spat, stepping closer. “The last time I did my duty, I chose honor over love. And then I had to hold the woman I loved in my arms as she died. What did duty and honor ever get me but pain and a knife in the heart?” He shook his head. “What if I want to choose love this time?”

Her throat constricted with a painful swallow as she stared hard at his mother’s statue. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, softly, “If I could marry you, Jon...you could take another wife, as well. It’s not unheard of with Targaryens. Aegon the Conqueror…” She trailed off. The thought was so abhorrent to him, everything in him revolted at the mere suggestion, but before he could offer up a vehement refusal, she continued, her voice whip-sharp. “But I _can’t_. The thought of you with another woman—no, I can’t share you. I won’t. It will be hard enough letting you go when that day comes. But watching you love another woman, seeing her grow big with the children I can’t give you—it would _kill_ me. I can’t be there for that. I can’t pretend to be happy about it. I’m scared the bitterness would drive me mad. Like Viserys. Like my father.”

Agony twisted in his heart, making his stomach cramp. “Dany…” He felt helpless. He didn’t know what to say. The thought of loving anyone but her filled him with a similar agony. He understood—he’d never be able to stand aside and watch another man have her. He just couldn’t accept what she was saying, the impossibility of having children with her. He’d heard the story, remembered the raw pain that still haunted her voice whenever she spoke of the loss of Rhaego, the blood magic that had cursed her womb. But he didn’t want to accept it. His voice was brittle when he spoke. “The witch could have been wrong. How do you—”

Daenerys whipped back toward him, a wildness in her eyes. “You weren’t there, Jon! You don’t know what that woman did to me! She tricked me. She killed my husband, she murdered my son. Only death can pay for life, she told me. So I burned her. I gave her life to the fire that birthed my dragons into the world. I—” She stopped suddenly, her eyes turning glassy and distant. “Only death can pay for life…” she murmured to herself, but said no more. Jon watched her, frowning with confusion.

“Dany?” he asked softly, but she didn’t appear to hear him. He tried again, stepping closer when he repeated her name. This time, her head snapped up, the cloudiness in her eyes clearing. In its place, a sudden fervency flared.

“I must speak with Samwell.”

Jon stared at her blankly. “Sam? Tarly?”

“He’s a maester, is he not?”

He parted his lips, trying to find words. “Aye. I mean, no. Not technically. He never completed his training. Why—”

“But he _has_ training,” she interrupted, stubbornly.

Jon grew exasperated. “ _Aye_ , but what do you need to speak with him for? We have an actual maester—”

Daenerys shook her head. “It has to be Sam. I trust Sam.” Pulling her hood up, she spun on her heel and hurried down the length of the vault toward the steps that would take her above ground. Ghost followed close behind. Bewildered, Jon stood rooted to his spot and gaped at her retreating back.

“Dany!” he called after her, his voice echoing through the crypt. But she didn’t turn back, disappearing beyond the range of the light. Soon her steps faded into silence. “Bloody hell,” Jon muttered to himself, turning back to the tombs. He wished he had his sword still, wished he was back in the yard, hitting something. At least, fighting he was good at. Even if he hated it, fighting made _sense_. A dance between him and foe, a choice between life or death. This dance with Daenerys was much harder to follow—and to what end? He had no bloody idea.

With an aggrieved sigh, he turned to leave but froze when a disembodied voice carried through the crypt.

“You got a baby on her, didn’t you?”

For the barest of moments, his heart stopped. Then Arya emerged from the shadows, slinking through two stone pillars. His muscles relaxed, the tension bleeding from him. “Eavesdropping, were you?” he asked, fixing his sister with a reprimanding look. Not his sister, he had to mentally correct himself. At least, not sister in truth; when that news had come to light, Arya had sought him out privately and insisted he would always be her big brother, no matter his name. Even while lost in his deep pit of anger and self-pity, he'd been grateful for that bit of comfort.

Arya crept closer, light of foot, light as air, and chewed on her lip. Her grey-eyed gaze drifted toward Ned Stark’s statue. “I was down here first. Visiting father and Rickon. I hid when I heard footsteps.”

Jon's scowl softened, and he cast his eyes to the two tombs in solemn reflection. “You should’ve at least made your presence known,” he said, attempting to appear stern. When they had been children, Jon could rarely be cross with Arya. After the intervening years, after everything they’d suffered since, and the suffering that awaited them still, he saw no point in starting now. “You shouldn’t have heard any of that.”

“Habit, I suppose. I hear all manner of things I shouldn’t.” Arya tilted her head in question. “So, it’s true then?”

Jon had to think back to what she’d asked. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck and into his cheeks. This was not something he wanted to discuss with her. “No. You misunderstood.”

She made a face, scrunching up her nose, so much like the 11-year-old girl he remembered. It was hard to believe she was a woman grown now. “I don’t think so. I remember when mother was bed-ridden with Rickon, how sick she was. I used to lie with her and stroke her hair, like she did for me when I was ill.” Arya shrugged. “And I saw my fair share of pregnant whores in Braavos. It was often the same for them.”

His mouth pulled into a frown, his growing confusion giving way to frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“The queen barely eats. I watch her in the Great Hall at feasts. Haven't you noticed? She hardly touches the food, and she always looks fit to spew. Yesterday, I saw her retching by the stables.”

Jon stared at her. “That only means the food here is shit,” he said doubtfully. Arya sighed in annoyance, like she was speaking to a simple creature.

“Look with your eyes, Jon. Listen with your ears. Did they teach you nothing at the Wall?”

He wasn’t listening now, lost in his thoughts. _Only death can pay for life_ , Daenerys had said. What had that meant? And what the hell did she need with _Sam_? His heart started to beat harder, and he glanced wildly in the direction of the stairs. “I need to…”

Arya shooed him. “Go on, then.”

Jon started but stopped short and shot her one last reproach over his shoulder. “You need to get to bed.” Then he strode away, her petulant huff falling on deaf ears. He left his lantern with her and took the winding steps two at a time in the dark, barely feeling the cold when he emerged from the crypts. His footfalls were light and quick, taking him to the Library Tower. Jon knew Sam would be there and not the maester’s turret, scouring old texts for any clues about the Long Night and the White Walkers, but he wasn’t sure Daenerys would have realized that.

His worries were put to rest when he saw Ghost standing sentinel. The direwolf perked up at the sight of him, ears twitching forward. Jon gave him a cursory scratch on the head in passing, impatiently loping up the steps of the tower. By the time he threw open the door, he was winded from his sprint. He stopped to suck in a breath, taking in the sight of Sam and Gilly standing before Daenerys, who sat on the edge of the library’s heavy oak table. They greeted him with wide eyes and shocked silence.

Standing rigidly in the doorway, Jon blew out a blustery breath and demanded, “Is it true?”

Panicked, Sam glanced between Daenerys and Jon and stammered a few times before he found his tongue. “I—I’m afraid I don’t—I don’t really know, Jon. I mean, Your Grace. I mean, my lord.”

“Is she with child?” Jon reiterated, stepping farther into the room.

Sam looked at Daenerys again, eyes growing larger still. She turned her face away, clutching her cloak tightly around herself, offering no response. Sam’s throat convulsed spastically.

“I never did finish my training at the Citadel, you know. I mean, I cleaned a lot of chamber pots, but—but, well, none of my training touched on—on—on—well, _you know_.” With a blush, he gestured vaguely at Daenerys.

Alight with excitement, Gilly spoke up, “I told Sam, if he got some wheat or barley from the stables and had her piss on it—beggin’ your pardon—we’d know for sure in a couple days, a few days, at most.”

“I don’t think that’s quite right,” Sam said meekly. Gilly looked affronted.

“Tell that to me and all o' Craster's wives! Always worked for us. I’ve been around enough babes to know when someone’s with child,” she insisted. Gilly cupped her own bosom, making Sam’s cheeks redden angrily. “She’s got the sore teats, and she can barely keep any food down. If you ask me, she’s got a baby in her.”

“I—I didn’t touch her—her _there_ , I swear,” Sam insisted to Jon, his jowls wobbling with his emphatic denial.

Grinding his teeth together, Jon jerked his chin over his shoulder. “Leave us. I need to talk to the queen. Privately.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. I mean, my lord,” Sam said hurriedly, gesturing for Gilly to head for the door. With a sigh, the wildling woman swept past Jon and out of the library, Sam on her heels. He offered a quick bow at the door before he shut it behind them, leaving Jon and Daenerys alone. Shelves of books rose on either side of him, lending the air a musty smell. More books lay strewn across the table Daenerys remained perched on, alongside rumpled parchment and thick scrolls and ink-tipped quills. He saw her dragonglass dagger beside her, safely set aside. The sight quelled some of his unease.

Neither spoke for a moment, Daenerys' face still averted so he couldn't see her expression. Freshly fed with logs, a fire in the hearth crackled and popped.

Finally, Jon stepped toward her. “Dany. Look at me.” He half-expected her staunch refusal, but to his surprise, and relief, she faced him readily. Her eyes were wary and cowled by caution. Licking his dry lips, he was suddenly nervous and timid. “Are you...are you with child?”

Daenerys released a soft sigh and slid off the edge of the table to stand. “I don’t know. It’s impossible to be sure just yet. It’s too soon.” She paused, her eyes distant as she thought. “At most...I would only be a couple months along. Not quite, by my math.”

Despite Arya’s and Gilly’s insistence, Daenerys' confirmation still landed like a blow to his stomach. He stood still, reeling, trying to process her words, as she turned her back to him and walked closer to the fire. She settled into the large-backed chair by the hearth and clasped her hands together in her lap. Staring into the fire, she said, “I haven’t had my moon blood for a couple months. But that’s not so unusual. Ever since Rhaego...my cycle has been fairly irregular. I didn’t bleed for a long time. After that, I never knew when it would come and go. Sometimes I would go months at a time without bleeding. Except...lately, I suppose my moon blood has been more reliable than not.”

Jon watched her. His lips parted, but he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say. Absently, he removed his gloves and dropped them on the table beside her dagger, then he took a step closer, searching her face. Trying and failing to gauge her reaction. There was a blankness in her eyes, the reflection of the fire making it impossible to determine what emotion was hidden in their depths. Was she happy? Sad?

Another step, and another, until he was standing in front of her. Carefully, he lowered himself to his knees before her. “It’s too soon to tell...but you think you are, don’t you?”

Drawing in a breath, Daenerys expelled it as a quiet sigh and closed her eyes. Then, blinking them open, she lifted her gaze to his. “I didn’t think...it _shouldn’t_ be possible, I was sure of it. I wasn’t paying attention before. I remember now, how it was with Rhaego. The fatigue. The nausea. I have no appetite. When I do manage to eat, it makes me sick.” Her arms relaxed, and she parted her cloak. Tentatively, she reached for Jon’s hand and drew it inside her cloak, cupping his hand around her breast. Even with that small stimulation, he felt her nipple pebble against his palm through the soft silk of her gown. “I’ve been sore and tender here, but also…” Her cheeks colored faintly in the soft firelight. “Extremely amorous. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Jon let out an incredulous chuff, the sound grinding in the tightness of his throat. “I guess—I guess my ego assumed it was because of me.”

Daenerys laughed, a quiet, tinkling melody full of amusement and relief. “The sight of you naked in my bed certainly never hurt,” she teased him. Still, her eyes watered, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Jon withdrew his hand from inside her cloak and wiped the tear away with his thumb. His hand lingered on her face to gently cup her jaw. She gave him a tremulous smile of gratitude.

“How…” He didn’t know how to ask. Mercifully, she knew what he meant.

“Viserion.” A fresh tear fell. This time, Jon let it linger on her pale skin. She didn't cry often, rarely at all since he’d met her, trapped as she was behind her queenly facade. But when it came to her dragons...he recalled the nights on the boat, when her tears puddled on his chest as he held her, comforting her while she mourned, sometimes silently to herself, and sometimes aloud to him. “Only death can pay for life, the witch told me. Maybe she _was_ wrong. Maybe she lied. But I think Viserion’s death…” She let the thought hang, her somber words heavy with guilt and remorse, but also wonder.

Jon took it in, letting his eyes drop to her belly, but it was shrouded in layers of fur and fabric, hidden from him. What she suggested seemed impossible, yet...how many impossible things had he been forced to confront and accept lately, including his own resurrection?

Suddenly, he thought of Melisandre. What was it the priestess had said to him, after she’d brought him back from the dead?

 _In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light_.

Could the red woman have been right, in a way? He’d never given much credence to her words or her beliefs before. It was absurd. It _should_ be absurd. And yet...Melisandre had seen something in him...

He almost laughed, overwhelmed, but Daenerys' fingertips on his face startled him from his reverie. When he looked at her, she appeared apprehensive. “Are you...would you be happy? If I were with child? I know you thought...rather, I told you I couldn’t…” She trailed off, helpless, as he stared at her.

“Would I be happy if you were with child? With _my_ child?” He folded his hand over hers, pressing her warm palm to his cheek. “I grew up thinking I was a bastard. I had it better than most bastard-born, aye, that’s true, but I never forgot what I was. I never truly fit in. Never really belonged to the family I loved. Never had a mother’s love. Even my father...the man I thought was my father, he couldn’t fully accept me as his son, though I think he wanted to, not when it meant shaming his wife even more.”

As she listened to him, Daenerys' eyes had gone soft. Her fingers curled, ever so lightly petting the slope of his cheekbone, as if she wanted to comfort him. Gods, he loved her for it.

“I joined the Night’s Watch, knowing it meant I could never take a wife or sire children. And I thought it for the best. I didn’t want to bring a child into this world and doom him to the kind of ridicule and abuse I suffered.” He choked back an unexpected press of emotion clotting his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “But deep down, I still wanted it. The family, a woman to love and be loved by...and a child of my own to hold in my arms.”

He gave her a small smile, but she pressed her trembling lips together, a small frown etched in the crease between her brow. Tears welled in her eyes again. “I want to give that to you,” she whispered. “But I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

She inhaled a tremulous breath. When he felt her hand go limp on his face, he released her, and she clenched her hands together in her lap, pressing them close to her stomach, almost protectively. “Because there’s so much more to lose now.”

A surge of protectiveness raged inside him, swift and resolute. “We won’t lose,” he vowed. He reached forward to grab her hands, clutching them tightly. “I swear to you that. I’ll protect you, and any child of ours. I’ll kill anyone or anything that tries to hurt you.”

That made her smile, however feeble the gesture was. She squeezed his hands in turn, lacing her fingers through his. “I think you forget who has the dragons.”

Jon flashed her a grin, relieved to see the return of her dry wit and playfulness. Letting out a breath, he dropped his gaze to their joined hands. Curious, tentative, he asked, “Can I...touch you?” His request was clumsy, and more suggestive than he meant, but Daenerys understood.

“You might be disappointed. There’s no change in my belly yet. I didn’t feel Rhaego move inside me until a few months had passed.” Untangling their fingers, Daenerys grasped the flaps of her cloak but stopped abruptly, as if remembering something. Jon looked up at her in question, confused by the color that rose in her face. “Oh. I almost forgot.”

“What is it?”

In lieu of a response, Daenerys parted her cloak. Jon gaped at the sight she presented him, suddenly losing all control and function of his tongue.

She wore a simple dress, a dress he’d never seen before—if he could even call it a dress. It was sheer, practically translucent, though the fabric shimmered faintly with pinks and purples. The gauzy material was airy but sinuous, somehow loose around the soft swells of her tits while revealing everything but the faint freckles and moles on her breasts he’d come to know quite intimately. Her blush-tipped nipples were hard and straining against the fawning material. She looked like a sweet confection, glazed and trimmed to make his mouth water. Jon had never seen a more welcoming sight in his life.

He swallowed the rush of saliva gathering under his tongue. “What—gods be good, Dany, what are you wearing?” he rasped.

Sheepishly, she bit down on her bottom lip. “It’s an old dress of mine. From Qarth. I guess I'd foolishly hoped to seduce you with it. You’d been avoiding me, and...well, it was the last weapon I had in my arsenal.”

Jon couldn’t help it; he laughed, deep and long. Insulted, Daenerys scowled, but he shook his head, his laughter tapering into a gruff chuckle. “Well, it would have worked, I wager, but it’s completely unnecessary now.” At her skeptical look, he parted her cloak open farther, sliding his palms along the smooth plane of her belly. She wasn’t wrong about being unchanged; still, believing, _knowing_ , a child they’d created together lay somewhere underneath his hands, a tiny little heart beating life, made his blood pump, thick and hot.

Curling his hands around her hips, Jon jerked her forward on the chair. She gasped in surprise and caught herself on his shoulders, spreading her legs open to welcome him between them as he tucked her tight against him. Her cloak opened, revealing a high split in the indecent dress, her toned thighs, and her well-worn leather boots. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, no smallclothes. That gave him pause, and he brought his eyes to hers, which were studying him intently.

“You really were using every trick tonight, weren’t you?” he murmured, unable to fight a smile when her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t tease me,” she warned, but he was already shaking his head, dipping his mouth to hers.

“Never,” he breathed against her lips before taking them in a kiss. When he stroked his tongue into her mouth, her tongue greeted him eagerly. He loved that, that she wasn’t content to let him lead or take what he wanted from her; she took what she wanted, too.

As their lips and tongues slipped together, he pushed her cloak off. The Qartheen dress left most of her shoulders bare, and he slid his fingers down the supple skin of her throat and collarbone, trailing his hands down over the silky fabric to once again cup her breasts. Her nipples puckered under his palms, and he rubbed them in small circles against the heels of his hands. Daenerys sighed into his mouth, grasping at his neck to pull him closer, to kiss him harder. The thick layers of his own furs were an obstruction, but he couldn’t be bothered to take them off, not yet.

Plucking her nipples between his fingers, he worked the tips into stiff little peaks until she was squirming on the chair. Only then did he unseal his mouth from hers, licking the wetness of her kiss from his lips, and lower his head to suck the ravaged tips of her breasts into his mouth. Through the thin dress, he laved her nipples, first one, then the other, with his tongue, soaking the material, making it cling like a second skin to the generous swells of her tits.

With a tortured gasp, Daenerys threw her head against the back of the chair and clutched at his head. “Jon,” she said, and he heard plainly enough the word she’d never say, not out loud: _please_. When he ceased his attentions to her breasts, he saw he’d left the dress even more translucent than before. Hungrily, he pushed her dress up to her hips and pulled her legs over his shoulders, tilting her so her arse was nearly hanging off the edge of the chair and her cunt, so wet and pink and pretty, was open for his mouth.

He didn’t tease her, not interested in denying her or himself the pleasure of her sweet cunt. He flicked his tongue up the seam of her slit, tracing her slick folds, gathering the tang of her nectar to swallow before he licked inside her to sup the honey from her well. She was as sweet and tart as a ripe plum, and just as plump and juicy.

Daenerys shuddered when he nudged her clitoris with his tongue, flicking it lightly. Her moan was sweet and soft, like the trilling of a helpless prey, a dark and dulcet song that made him hungrier. He opened her wider to his mouth to devour her, and she fisted his hair. The dark curls were still damp from his intensive sparring earlier, the strands slipping loose from the leather tie that held them back.

“Jon,” she gasped out his name again. She seemed to be at war with herself, her thighs attempting to close around his head and hold him close while her hands pushed him away. “I don’t want to finish, not yet.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh, branding her flesh with her own honeyed juices, then he licked it clean. The muscles in her thigh quivered under his tongue. “But I want you to,” he said huskily.

That made her smile, her cheeks rosy and glowing, yet she pushed him back. “Not without your cock inside me,” she murmured, and he let her legs slip from his shoulders. She didn’t bother pulling her dress down to protect her modesty, keeping her legs spread apart for his idle enjoyment as she leaned forward to strip him out of his too-plentiful layers.

First, the thick cloak came off, then the leather gambeson, and last the long-sleeved tunic. He had to assist her with the last two, pulling them over his head. Jon retrieved his mottled fur cloak and tossed it onto the floor, spreading it out on the stones in front of the hearth. Then, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her from the chair to lay her on top of the furs.

The light from the orange and red dancing flames warmed her skin, painting her plaited hair gold and her face the color of budding blossoms in the spring. He leaned over her to capture her mouth in another kiss. She sucked at his lips and stroked her tongue against his, tasting the nectar of her own cunt, even as she reached between them to unlace his breeches. Jon merely held himself open to her administrations, returning the kiss languidly, breathing a sigh into her mouth when she finally pulled his cock out of his smallclothes through the undone laces of his pants.

Daenerys stroked her palm up and down his shaft, fingering the head of his cock and rubbing the weeping slit where his precum beaded. Biting roughly at his bottom lip, she ran her hand down the underside of his cock to grip his balls, ripping a ragged groan from deep in his chest as she fondled and tugged his sack with enthusiastic appreciation.

As good as it felt, nothing compared to the wet grip of her cunt around him as he moved inside her, and that was what he wanted right then. “Keep that up, and neither of us will finish with me inside you,” Jon warned, his voice shredded. Even with that admonishment, he had to gently guide her hand off his cock and pin it to the ground. She shifted restlessly under him, cradling him between her legs. He pushed his breeches and smallclothes down over his arse to completely free his cock and adjusted her dress so it came up to her belly, leaving bare her wet cunt and the downy thatch of silvery hair between her thighs.

He should take the dress off so he could properly worship her, he knew, but there was something about fucking her in this obscene dress that made his cock even harder.

With the tip of his cock kissing the seam of her wet folds, he began to push inside her but froze, inexplicably seized by fear. “I’m not—I won’t hurt you, will I?” he asked, but she shook her head frantically, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him closer. His cock slipped farther inside her. Even with the wetness of her cunt easing him inside, his cock, thick with blood and arousal, met the resistance of her walls.

“Never,” she assured him, the ferocity of that one word making it sound more a vow. She dug the thick-soled heels of her boots into his ass to force him deeper, letting out a full-throated moan as he thrust into her, working his cock in and out of her tight channel until he was fully seated in her cunt. Jon made to pull out so he could fuck her, but Daenerys seized his shoulders, bringing him to a halt. “Wait. Jon.” He held his breath, staring down at her wide-eyed as she looked up at him. Her violet eyes were a deep purple in the firelight, dancing with untold emotion. She grabbed his face and lightly stroked his beard, then his cheeks. Her smile caused tears to trickle over her lower lashes and down her temples, disappearing into her hairline. “I love you. I’ve loved you since Dragonstone. Since you left me for Eastwatch. I only knew it when I saw you return to me from beyond the Wall.”

He stopped breathing. His heart drummed against his rib cage, a dull roar in his ears. He almost missed the rest of her declaration.

“I wanted to tell you sooner. I should have. I was afraid. I didn’t think I’d get to keep you.” Another tear escaped. She pulled his face closer until their lips grazed together, shaping the rest of her confession to his mouth. “I still don’t know if I will be able to. But I love you. I love you. You deserve to hear that.”

Somehow, his lungs started working again, and he sucked in a breath, breathing in her words of love. His throat closed, preventing his own response. Instead, he kissed her again. Hard and fierce, hoping his tongue spelled out his love for her where his voice failed him.

Their lovemaking began slow, with modest, measured circles of his hips against hers, while they kissed earnestly, lovingly, neither wanting to release the other’s mouth without a thorough exploration and claiming. Only when his lips felt raw and abraded did Jon pull back to breathe. As he drew in air, he withdrew his cock from root to tip, then slid back into her till his tip kissed the wall of her womb. Her breathing ragged, Daenerys tightened around him, from cunt to boot heel, shadows and light undulating across her face as the fire danced on.

Again, Jon pulled out to revel in the pleasure of sinking into her wet cunt, over, and over. Tortuously and unhurriedly to start, until his balls were full and heavy and aching and Daenerys' thighs were trembling around his waist from the strain. Then he gave it to her, good and hard, but not too quickly, not yet. Just a thorough, deep fucking as she grunted and squealed beneath him, sounding every bit like a sow in heat.

When he felt the friction of her cunt slowing him down, Jon wedged his elbow under her back to brace his weight and wriggled his hand between their slick bodies. The soft, satiny skin of her belly had been chafed by the coarse hair arrowing from his navel to cock, and he soothed it with his fingers before sliding his hand down to where their bodies were joined. There, he found her clitoris, puffy and swollen from arousal. So tender and delicate compared to her stiffly knotted nipples.

Jon took one of her nipples in his mouth, rewetting the tip and the fabric of her dress, as he stroked her fleshy pearl below. The effect was immediate; Daenerys gasped and arched beneath him, her cunt growing instantly wetter with his fervent attentions of mouth and fingers and cock. He nudged her ever closer to the precipice, lifting his head to tongue her throat, her jaw. Her hands clawed at his neck and his shoulders, until she snaked them around his back to hug him close. His skin grew damp with perspiration, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, the stifling heat from the hearth stoking the sultry fire already heating his veins.

“ _Ñuha jorrāelagon. Ñuha zokla. Ñuha dārys._ ” The breathless words were exotic and strange in his ear, but no longer so foreign to him. Though she’d taken care to teach him some High Valyrian and even Dothraki during the journey to Winterfell, she remained coy about translating her pillow talk. Still, he’d come to decipher certain words and phrases, probably better than she’d hoped.

 _My wolf, my king_. He understood that much, words she was fond of whispering to him under the covers. The rest was deduced by the way their bodies moved together. She loved him. _Gods be good,_ she loved him.

A full-body shudder racked him, and he gasped wetly against the curve of her neck. “Gods, Dany.” He licked a desperate, open-mouth trail to her ear, where he drew the lobe between his teeth, giving it a firm nip that made her nails cut into the small of his back. “I’m going to watch you grow big and round with my child,” he swore. He pumped his cock inside her harder, faster, making her breasts jiggle.

She let out a laugh that sounded more a sob. His fingers were wet with her slippery arousal as he drew quick circles around her clitoris, and, frantic, Daenerys lifted her hips into his, bumping and gyrating against him in her desperation to find her release.

“ _Jon_.” His name came as one last cry before her breath hitched. Knowing what followed, Jon stroked her clitoris to encourage her through her orgasm, not letting up even as he felt her cunt ripple and squeeze around his cock. Daenerys shook and groaned, clinging to him tightly. Only once her spasms abated did he withdraw his hand from between her legs to brace it beside her head. Then he clenched his jaw and pumped into her with a final grunt, bowing her back off the ground as he spilled his seed inside her.

Once their blood cooled, the sweat still drying on their skin, Jon relaxed against her. He stayed buried inside the warmth of her sheath but held most of his weight off her—specifically, her belly. He brushed strands of hair away from her damp forehead. She simply stared up at him through lidded eyes, her lashes fluttering languorously, though she managed a sleepy smile for him.

He smiled back at her, absurdly wanting to weep and hold her to him forever, but also to rouse them both to excitement again and keep fucking her. It was hard to choose with her looking at him so.

“Yes,” she whispered without prelude.

Perplexed, he blinked. Had she heard his thoughts? “What?”

“Ask me again, Jon Snow.”

His mouth went dry, and he had to fight the reflexive pull of his mouth into a delirious smile. He tried for serious and staid, though it was an effort to keep his voice from shaking. “Will you be my wife, Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Yes. I would marry you a thousand times over if I could.”

This time, he didn’t stop his lips from spreading into a smile. “I guess the one time will have to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be the last chapter, though I MIGHT do one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts? But I've got some other ideas for fics I wanna take a crack at in the mean time :)


End file.
